


Rise

by Snooty_Alpaca



Category: Original Work
Genre: Camp Nanowrimo, Fantasy, Gen, NaNoWriMo, Original Fiction, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snooty_Alpaca/pseuds/Snooty_Alpaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Áedbran is plucked from his home to join the Griffins, an organization that does much good the country. However, he is brought in at a time when the Griffins and the government that they support are falling apart. Many members at at each other's throats, while others are simply trying to line their pockets with as much gold as they can manage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01 - Cináed, 739

Fifth Age, 739  
Early Summer  
Northeastern Lands

**01 - Cináed**

“Must you go?” Cináed groaned from his place on their bed.

“No,” Bettina replies as she carefully folds the winter blankets so they can be packed away for the brief summer months. She knows that if left to his own devices Cináed will leave them in a heap on the floor until they are needed again. “But I _want_ to go.” She looks up from her work to see her husband’s face crumple into a scowl. “My brother and his wife are expecting their first child. With our mother gone it would be rude of me not to go and help.”

“Surely she has family of her own?” he asks as he rolls onto his stomach. “Can’t they help her? Why does it have to be you?”

“I’m sure that they could. It does not _have_ to be me, but I want it to be me. I want to go, Cináed,” she says firmly – putting the blanket into the chest with more force than was strictly necessary.

“What about our own children?” he counters. He knows her soft spot for their two daughters and he is not afraid to use it against her. “What about Caoimhe and Bláthnat? They’re only three and five summers. I think they need you a great deal more than that sister-in-law of yours that you’ve never met.”

“I’ve met her. She was just a child though. So it’s not like I’ve never seen the girl before,” Bettina replies, pointedly ignoring Cináed’s barbed question.

“Yes. But what about our children?”

“I’m sure you and Cian can manage to care for both of them sufficiently for a few months. I’ll be back before summer is over. The girls will not miss me overly much, they have the ponies that Cian gave them. Your brother spoils them.” She heaves a sigh when she finishes speaking and walks over to sit next to her husband. “They might actually be glad I’m gone. There will be no one here to make them go to bed before the stars rise or eat something besides sweets.”

“I’ll make them eat other things . . .” Cináed mumbles.

“I will be safe,” she assures him as she runs her fingers through his long, dark hair. She gently removes the knots that she comes across. “The northern mountains aren’t that dangerous and they are far from a bustling metropolitan.”

Cináed rolls over to press his face into his wife’s side. His words are muffled. “Yes, but there is political unrest. The entire country is a powder keg that is just waiting for a spark. I’m glad that we don’t live on the mainland. It has always protected us and isolated us before. I hope it will be no different this time around.”

Bettina lightly smacks her husband’s shoulder. He shifts to look up at her face. “You have been saying the same things since before Caoimhe was born. That was over six years ago and nothing has happened!”

“It could have and it still might,” he grumbles before turning his face back to her side.

“Could! Might!” Bettina says in exasperation as she rises to her feet once more and bustles around the room straightening the curtains and the bed cloths – which require her unceremoniously shoving her husband off the bed.

Cináed moves to the sofa by the door where he flops down. He watches his wife from under his lashes. The thought of her leaving him, even if for such a short time, makes his chest ache with loss. While the obstacles that he places in her way are valid and important, they all pale in comparison with aching loneliness that looms and creeps up on him whenever he thinks of the short summer months passing without her by his side.

“Can you not wait another week? Enjoy some of the summer here? Twist grass braids, whatever they call them, with the girls. Wait, at least, until Cian has had time to conduct a _mriyati_? He protests again as Bettina fluffs the pillows.

“Cináed . . .” she groans softly with exasperation and frustration as she continues her work without giving her pouting husband even so much as a glance. “There will be many more summers for me and the girls. I could wait, but I have already chartered my passage. Moreover, as for Cian’s ‘dreams’,” she says the last word skeptically. “You know I place little stock in those.”

“But you trust the Meanings of your own people?” Cináed scoffs sadly, as he realized that waiting for a mriyati will not keep his wife with him for another week.

“It’s not that,” she pauses. “For my people it’s much more common. It’s an everyday sort of thing. No one devotes their lives to it; there are no monasteries or homes where they hole up away from the world. Ours is only our everyday lives; will there be rain; when should we breed our sheep; when should we conceive a child. There is nothing like the mriyatis for us to even consider.

“Besides,” she changes her tone, “Cian is a little unreliable, as you well know. It might be weeks before he “feels up to it” and you know that.”

“There is nothing wrong with waiting, love.” Cináed says gently as he takes his wife’s small hands. “Just for the mriyati.”

“No.” Bettina jerks her hands from Cináed’s grasp. “The ship is chartered. I’m ready. The servants have already been briefed. Waiting would be stupid. Plus,” she adds, “for all we know Cian is passed out drunk somewhere where he is no use to anybody.”

“We’ve been over this,” Cináed snaps. “Their training is not all staying up late and sleeping all day. One of us needed to do it and I thank all that there is that Cian took up that responsibility so that I didn’t have to. As the eldest, he would have inherited and I would have been pushed into the monasteries for training. But he chose it, which left me free to follow a different path.”

His tone softens, “A path to you.” He strokes her cheek gently before continuing in a rough voice. “No one ever talks about what goes on inside the monasteries, but if you have ever seen my brother’s bare skin – and you know that he has never seen combat – you know that it is not at all pleasant.”

Bettina opens her mouth to speak, but Cináed interrupts her before she can speak. “You weren’t here when he first came home. Our father was about to send him back until he broke down in the courtyard sobbing. Cian was always the strong one. It shook my father enough to let him come home. He told me that he needed the normalcy. At first, he woke up screaming most night. Here, he was able to find comfort; there it was so common that no one really cared.

“He ended up in my bed most nights. I don’t think my parents saw how haunted he was. He pulled it together for them during the days, but . . . after he dreams . . . there was no pretending. I’ve never told him how much I appreciate the sacrifice he made for me. Knowing him, he’ll just tell me that he would have never made a good lord of our land.”

“I –” Bettina stammers as she wrings her hands in her skirt. “I know it all takes it’s toll him . . . I . . .”

Cináed silences his wife’s guilty whining with a soft, chaste kiss. “I’m sorry for snapping. Everyone takes digs at Cian because he’s not all there and he has plenty of problems, but he’s my brother.”

Bettina nods and gently kisses her husband’s forehead before working her way down to his lips. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs against his lips. She does not have to say what she is sorry for. She is sorry for everything. Having to leave, never truly understanding Cian, the months and the miles that will separate them.

“MATI!” a shrill voice shouts as it barrels into the married couple.

“Ooof,” Cináed says exaggeratedly as he adjusts his hold on his wife so that he can scoop their youngest daughter into his lap. “What are you doing, bug?” he asks he daughter fondly.

The little blonde girl ignores her father’s question and turns all of her intense attention on her mother. “Mati. Flower,” the little girl shoves a slightly crumpled white flower in her mother’s direction.

“Aww,” Bettina coos as she plucks the flower from her daughter’s sweaty and pudgy little fingers. She tucks the flower that has certainly seen better days into the loose braid that sweeps across the side of her head. “It’s lovely, Bláthnat.”

The girl gives her mother a wide and toothy grin. “Come see what Caoi did!” The blonde girl’s hair swings wildly about her face as she launches herself from her father’s lap and seizes her mother’s hand. “Come!” She demands as she puts all of her body weight into dragging her mother towards the door.

Bettina twists in her hunched over position as her daughter tugs on her hand to meet her husband’s gaze. She mouths ‘sorry’ and he nods.

Cináed understands. As hard is this separation is going to be for the two of them it might be harder for her to be separated from her daughters. All the trips he had to take when Caoimhe was little were agonizing. He had not thought that it would be possible to miss such a small thing that could not even converse with him so much. When Bettina had told him that she was pregnant again, he had extracted himself from his job. While it was often mind-numbingly boring now he considers that he, gets to be home every night – or only away for a few days at a time – a fair trade off for the excitement that he had grown accustom to. 

Cináed groans as he stretches his back before standing up. As much as he hates to admit it, he knows that Bettina is probably right about Cian. He is probably passed out somewhere and reeking of some form of alcohol. His elder brother was not fussy; fine wine, dark beer, pale ales, or decades old whisky all suite him just fine.

* * *

 

Cináed finds Cian in the stable’s hayloft. The older man is sprawled out on the previous winter’s hay. His kilt is wrapped around him precariously, but nothing is exposed that should not be; Cináed silently thanks all spiritual authorities for that. Some of the maids – he has not found out who yet, but when he does they will certainly be disciplined – had taken to stealing his brother’s kilt, or, at the very least, exposing him for humiliation. Doubtlessly the guilty parties find their actions amusing without thinking about how their thoughtless actions affected the man who, right now, is sprawled out in the hay with a peaceful, quiet expression on his face.

“Cian,” Cináed shakes his brother’s shoulder gently. “Cian?”

The only response Cináed gets in response is a deep huffing exhale of breath and Cian pulling the large fabric of his kilt over his face.

“Cian!” Cináed says sharply; his words are combined with a pinch to his brother’s ribs.

Cináed exhales exasperatedly. He stares down at his still sleeping brother. He reaches for his brother’s arm and pulls the comatose form over his shoulders with practiced efficiency. He grunts as he presses himself back to standing. “Oof, brother, you’ve gotten fat,” Cináed chides.

The stairs down from the loft require him to descend them sideways, which is, to say the least, a bit squirrely, he nearly drops his sleeping brother more than once. However, those almost-mishaps he smells his brother’s breathe. _‘Whisky,’_ he thinks sadly. Despite everything, Cian told him about what went on in the monasteries he had never been able to pry out the stories of the scars that litter his brother’s once perfect skin. He had even tried getting Cian drunk, but the older man still refused to speak. Cináed had stopped asking after a while; the haunted look the came to Cian’s eyes whenever asked about his scars cut Cináed and he could not bear seeing that expression any more. Now, he does not ask, he just helps and accepts his brother.

No one even looks at him twice as he carries his brother through the courtyard and the halls. This is far too often an occurrence to warrant any openmouthed gaping. There was a time when Cináed did this walk almost every day, but this time, he is breathing heavily by the time he unceremoniously deposits Cian onto his bed. Cináed briefly wonders how long ago was the last time that he did this rather than asking one of the servants to find his brother. _‘Since Bláthnat was born.’_

“Oh, brother,” Cináed sighs. He drops down onto the bed next to his sleeping brother. He turns his gaze to look at his brother’s dark brown hair that is still full of bits of hay and dust. “Why did you need to do this today? You know what today is. I need you today and you’re . . . you’re . . .” He turns to glare at his brother. He desperately wants his brother’s support, but the only support Cian has at the moment is the suggestion of whisky on his breathe. Later, Cináed knows that that will be the comfort he seeks on his own or with his brother. However, right now, he wants is assurance that Bettina will return before the leaves change color.

Cináed tries to never ask his brother for a mriyati, but this one time, he desperately needs it. Something about this time makes his blood run cold and his stomach twist. Before he leaves his brother alone, he pulls the blankets over the prone man’s form. He shuts the door loudly, not caring if it disturbs Cian’s sleep.

* * *

 

Noon has come and gone. The mid-afternoon sunlight beats down in the courtyard. The beams of light glint almost playfully off the dust that floats. Dust that was disturbed by the restless stamping of the horses. _‘A perfect day,’_ Cináed thinks as he watches a servant wrestle his wife’s trunk into the wagon.

Bettina stands awkwardly in front of her husband. She has never been on this side of the goodbyes. Her eyes move over her husband and her two daughters that cling to his legs. The girls stare up at her with wide eyes and she cannot help but feel like she is abandoning or betraying them. She shakes her head to dispel such morbid thoughts.

“Milady, we’re ready to leave,” the wagon driver informs her.

“Thank you,” she does not even turn to look at the man, her gaze is so fixed on her family. “We’ll leave here shortly.” She meets her husband’s grey eyes, “I guess this is goodbye.”

Cináed pulls himself for his daughters’ grasp and pulls his wife into a tight hug in moments. “Only for now,” he whispers in her ear. “We’ll be here waiting for you.” He squeezes his eyes shut to try to hold back the burning tears that he can feel beginning as she wraps her arms around his waist.

“Mati?” Bláthnat tugs on her mother practical brown skirt.

Bettina regretfully extracts herself from her husband’s arms so that she can kneel down and see their youngest child. Fat tears roll down the girl’s fair, round cheeks. Bettina opens her arms and her youngest throws herself into his mother with a desolate cry of ‘mati’.

“Dearest,” Bettina soothes as she strokes her daughter’s blonde hair. She turns to look at Caoimhe.

Caoimhe turns her dry face away from her mother. She fixes her blue eyes on something beyond her mother. She refuses to look at her mother.

“Caoimhe,” Bettina invites as she moves her one arm to allow room for her elder daughter to join the hug.

Caoimhe just huffs and crosses her arms; still looking far away.

Bettina looks up at her husband for help. Cináed shrugs helplessly.

“I’ll miss you, dearest one,” she whispers to Bláthnat. “I’ll be home before you know it. And I’ll bring gifts for you.”

“Gifts?” Bláthnat pulls away to look at her mother’s face. “What kind of gifts?” she asks; her voice is heavy with suspicion.

“Only the best sort of gifts for you and your sister,” Bettina promises with a smile.

Bláthnat turns from her mother and runs to her sister. “Did you hear that, Caoi? Gifts!” The tears are gone as quickly as they came for the little girl.

The elder does not reply even to her little sister’s excitement.

“Do I get a gift to?” Cináed asks with a quirk of one eyebrow as he wife climbs to her feet and dusts the dust from her knees.

“What sort of present would you want?” she asks with the same quirk of her eyebrows.

“Something like this,” he kisses her gently. His fingers winding themselves into her thick blonde hair.

“I’m pretty sure that can be arranged,” she says with a smile. “I already have a surprise for you when I get back.”

“Hmmm?” he hums questioningly. “What is it?”

“You’ll just have to wait and wash behind the girls’ ears if you want to know.”

“Tease,” Cináed accuses.

“Exactly.” Bettina smiles.

Bettina extracts herself from her husband’s hold. “I have to go now,” she climbs into the wagon. “I love you.”

“Be safe,” Cináed urges. All teasing is gone from his voice. “I mean it. Be safe.”

“I will,” she promises before brushing off his warnings. “Nothing ever happens; everything fizzles out before it can become too terrible of a problem.”

“No matter,” Cináed says roughly.

The wagon seat creaks as the driver hauls his bulk onto the bench. He chirps to the horses and the wagon is moving. Pulling Bettina further from her husband and children.

It is as the wagon disappears down the road that Cian appears. They hay is gone from his dark hair, but it is still greatly disheveled. His kilt is belted around him, the folds rustling and flapping in the light breeze. His chest is bare, exposing many of the scars that he refuses to speak about. He watches the wagon for a few moments before stepping up to stand beside his younger brother. He does not speak. He simply places his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezes.

Unseen to any of those standing in the courtyard are the dark, rain heavy clouds that linger on the horizon. Clouds that promise a dark and rainy night for everyone.


	2. 02 - Pól, 739

Fifth Age, 739  
Mid-Summer  
Eastern Coast, Acle

**02 - Pól**

The sound of the city reaches him far before he can see the gleaming white towers of limestone rising up from the fields of green that roll right up to the coast. Pól’s blood has been thrumming in his veins for the past several days. He began to feel anxious and excited when he first caught a whiff of the fresh sea air; brine, salt, and seaweed carried on a lazy eastern wind to leaving their teasing calls inland, over fifty miles island from the coast.

Pól has been walking all morning; leading Mara, his mare along at a leisurely pace. He is enjoying just being outdoors. Home will come soon enough. He purposefully did not write home. If something happened, if his reward for a job well done was stripped away – as it had been several times before – he did not want to leave anyone sitting on the doorstep waiting for him to come when he never would. He has done that far too many times to count, but the imagined expression of heartbreak on his daughter’s face lead him to stop announcing when he would be coming home.

A frown tugs Pól’s lips downwards. His mother stopped writing when he never responded to her lengthy – if almost unreadable letters – over the years. Letters never found him in a timely manner if they found him at all.

“She’ll be almost grown by now,” Pól murmurs to himself. “I doubt Sive will be all that excited to see you, old girl, at least not like she was last time.” The last time he has seen his daughter was almost a decade ago. Roads just never seemed to lead him home. Pól briefly wonders if she will resemble the freckle-faced girl who had tears in her eye when her father was leaving. He shakes his head to dispel any idea like that. “She’ll be a woman. She might be married when bairns of her own by now,” Pól wonders aloud.

As pleasing as the air is, he cannot help ignore the troubling sounds that the same lazy, warm, wet summer breeze brings to him now. Pól frowns, narrowing his eyes. He can hear much shouting and a great commotion, but it is still far too early for any of the festivals that take place during the harvest.

“What do you think, girl?” Pól asks his horse.

The mare snorts, spraying Pól with droplets.

Pól chuckles. “My thoughts exactly.” He pats her nose absentmindedly. “But, I do think we should see what it is. I’d rather not have our first vacation in years disturbed by unruly farmers.” When the mare twitches her ears and pulls on the reins, which he holds tightly, to nip at some grass that grows alongside the cobblestone road.

“Oh, come,” Pól chides softly with a laugh as he gathers the reins. “You know that the farmers always give you carrots. You know you’ll be displeased if there is some problem that would hinder such behavior.

Mara snorts loudly as he mounts up.

Pól urges Mara out of her lackadaisical walk into a rambling trot that begins to diminish the miles left between them and Acle. The uproar only grows louder as they approach the city that is so familiar to her son who has been long away. The cobbled road winds through hills that are a deep green with soybeans, but, today, during the height of the summer they are empty. Even the pastures are empty. That is not so normal. During the summer months, the cows – kept for beef and milk – are out in the fields where they required little human effort for them to prosper except for milking in the morning and in the evenings often carried out by the children.

Once they are closer clusters of cottages, where there are normally mother’s yelling at their children who are climbing trees and shouting though the tall, undulating grass are empty and silent. Pól slows Mara’s trot – which she keeps trying to drop out of – to peer between the cottages. The copses of tall, green pines lack brown bare-limbed children swinging from the trees. The only movement and sound comes from chickens who scratch at the dusty ground. There is no one there. Pól resists the urge to dismount and explore further for fear that some pestilence is to blame. A pestilence could be the cause of the fields that are empty of any human life and for the uproar from the city that grows louder with every step. Rather than stopping Pól continues down the road, but his eyes and his mind linger in the trees. He misses the children.

Now, they are closer. The roar, similar to the voice of the ocean during a storm, becomes separate elements when Pól can see the flags flying from the steep peaks of the houses. There are differences in the clamor that makes up the generalized roar. There is angry shouting from men and women; there is metallic clamoring of weapons pounding on shields with metal bosses of the city guard; there was authoritative shouts; and last of all, there was wails of grief.

The tall, white buildings in the center of the city – residences of the local nobility – and places of official business gleam in the late morning sunlight. They draw the eye away from the golden seas beyond and from the emerald fields; however, today, they do not draw Pól’s eyes upwards. Today, the walls cannot detract from the throngs of dirty, sweaty people who mill about the streets. The hordes of shouting people shove against the bulwarked city guard who seem to be trying to contain the commotion.

Pól quickly dismounts and leads Mara in the shoving and pushing crowd, his hand tight on her bridle. Everyone is moving; he cannot find a single person to address. He spots a girl-child, no longer a child, but not quite a woman, seated on a barrel among others that line the side of the street. She swings her legs, he heels undoubtedly making ‘thunk’ noises as they slam into the side of the large barrel. Any sound her heels against the barrel are lost in the almost deafening noise of the crowd.

“What’s going on?” Pól shouts. He almost cannot hear the words as they come out of his mouth. They sound like a whisper, but he knows that he shouted them.

The girl fixes her brown eyes on him in a firm stare. A frown drags her eyebrows downwards, but she does not reply. She surveys his uniform and his horse with a slow sweeping stare.

“What is happening here?” Pól tries again.

The frown on her face deepens. She screws up her face and looks down only to spit on his boots.

Pól instantly makes to grab for the girl, but she is gone. Her ragged white shirt disappearing among so many others that are the exact same.

“Shite,” Pól mumbles as he roughly wipes his book off on the corner of the building that the barrels lean against. He cannot afford the time to think or try and figure out what is happening on his own. To figure that out he would need peace, quiet, and a preferably dark room with plenty of ale. None of which could be forthcoming in the current commotion.

“Common on,” Pól says softly to Mara even though she cannot hear him, tugging her forward into a walk. Together they slowly fight their way through the undulating crowd into areas less crowded, but no more pleasant than what they left behind as their steps carry them closer to the ocean and the neighborhood where Pól grew up.

The homes buildings become smaller, their limestone exteriors no longer gleam because their owners no longer have the time nor the money to spend time cleaning the outside of their homes. Pól loosens his grip on Mara’s bridle and reins as they move further from the pressing crowds and further into territory that is familiar to him from the years that he spent aimlessly wandering the streets as a youth who had little better to do with his time than get into trouble and see if anything exciting is taking place.

Soon he is turning down the alleyway between buildings leading into a small green courtyard that houses several large trees. Pól pauses to look around the familiar courtyard as he secures Mara’s reins to a post. The four buildings that create the walls of the courtyard share the space; their main doors open into the small private area. None of the doors sits flush to their frames and sand brought here by frequent windy storms deposited it in the corners where no one cares enough to sweep it away. A girl with brown hair is sitting in the shade of one of the trees. She can be no more than four summers old. She has a tiny horned lizard clutched tightly in her chubby fists, but her wide blue eyes stare widely up at him.

Pól gives the little girl a wolfish smile, showing far too many teeth. “Hey.”

Her eyes widen even further. “Mama!” she shrieks as she streaks from her position through one of the doors – making sure that she gives the tall stranger the widest berth possible. The door of the house bangs hollowly against an interior wall as the girl flings it aside in her mad dash.

Pól’s stomach clenches as he sees which building the girl has run into. A flash of fear and foreboding crosses his face as he considers the idea that his parents might have moved or passed away in the years since the last letter that he received.

That fear, however, quickly dissipates, when an elderly women is dragged from the dim interior of the home into the shady courtyard. “What is it, dear?” she asks from her hunched over position as the child tugs at her hand.

“See! Gra’ma! See!” The little girl demands pointing at Pól.

Shock replaces the fear on Pól’s face when the older woman slowly straightens – her hands moving to support her back. Silver streaks through her dark brown hair and her blue eyes no longer burn vibrantly as they do when he pictures her; his mother.

Ronit’s blue eyes – paled through age – widen as they land on him. “Pól?” she exhales quietly.

“Mother,” Pól says just as softly. He closes the gap between them with several long steps to wrap her in a hug.

“We’d given up on seeing you again,” Ronit says, her words muffled by her son’s waist.

Pól chuckles. “I managed to keep myself out of trouble long enough to keep my vacation.”

“You mean you kept your mouth shut,” Ronit teases.

Pól opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. Instead, he nods his agreement with a small smile quirking his lips.

The hug parts. Ronit smiles up at her son.

“Gra’ma?” The little girl tugs on Ronit’s skirt as she moves to hide behind the folds.

Pól startles when he notices the term the little girl used to refer to his own mother.

“Oh! No!” Ronit protests with a laugh at her son’s wide and questioning eyes. I haven’t had any more children and you know your brother is still firmly ensconced in the monastery. I doubt he has ever looked at a woman in that way.”

Pól gestures to the little girl. “Who is she, then?”

“I’m Polly,” the little girl says impetuously.

Ronit drops her hand to caress Polly’s hair. “To be accurate I am her great grandma. And you’re her grandfather.”

Pól’s face constricts when he feels his heart and his breath catch. “Sive?” he asks desperation and fear creeping into his voice.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Ronit quickly assures. “Actually, she’ll probably be along shortly to see why I haven’t returned.”

“Ma? Is something wrong?” A voice shouts from inside.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Ronit shouts over her shoulder. She turns her attention back to her son. “How long are you staying this time?”

Pól has to drag his attention away from the dim interior of the house and back to his mother and the question that she just asked.

“Hmmm? Oh, I have a month. I’ll stay however long you want me here,” Pól says distractedly his gaze already being drawn back to the door. “Is she inside?”

“She was working on some mending,” Ronit says.

Before Ronit can continue, a tall woman slowly emerges from the house. Her dress stretches tight over her pregnant stomach. She is much taller and developed than when Pól last saw her, but he feels that he would recognize her anywhere no matter how old she was or how much she had changed.

Pól smiles. “Sive.”

Sive freezes. “What are you doing here?” she demands.

The smile fades from Pól’s face at his daughter’s harsh tone. “As my mother said I kept my mouth shut long enough to take advantage of some of my leave.”

“It’s been over a decade since you had leave?” Sive scoffs, disbelief coloring her tone.

“I have trouble with staying out of trouble, I always have,” he says in a monotone voice. “Father?” he gestures to the little girl and Sive’s pregnant belly.

The defiance disappears from her face as she looks away and crosses her arms.

Pól shifts widening his stance and crossing his own arms. “Is there something I need to know? Someone I need to go after? My position affords me certain . . . _liberties._ ” He carefully enunciated each syllable of the last word.

“It’s nothing like that,” Sive mumbles, but does not look back towards her father. “There is no father.”

Pól’s eyes soften. “Did he die?”

Sive’s snaps her attention back to Pól. “No,” she says firmly. Her eyes burn as she says the next words, “I’m a prostitute.”

Pól keeps his arms crossed, but his fingers dig into his biceps as anger flashes across his face. “Why?” he bites out angrily.

“Because you weren’t here!” Sive snaps. “Someone had to do something to support us after grandpa died. And I wasn’t qualified for anything else. No one wants a ‘dock-brat’ working as a maid or a nanny.”

“The Griffin’s school trains you for more than laying on your back with open legs!”

Ronit quickly moves between the pair who are facing off. She places her hand gently on the center of his chest and presses. “They closed the school shortly after you left last time,” Ronit explains softly. Sive does not wait to hear what her mother says; Sive grabs Polly and disappears into the house.

“What? Why?” Pól demands. The pinched corners of his eyes relax at his mother’s words though. He might be able to do something to remedy that even if it is too late for his daughter. It is certainly not too late for her unfortunate children.

Ronit shrugs. “We only ever heard rumors. Others tried to start up schools, but none of them lasted more than a few moons.”

“What were the rumors?”

Ronit looks away before meeting her son’s eyes. “That they closed the school her because no one could afford to pay any sort of tuition.”

“WHAT? That’s the whole point of the schools!” Pól rages. “They are there so that children have options besides thievery and whoring!”

“I know,” Ronit says gently. “But they closed it nonetheless. The only school that is open now is the one that the well-born children attend. They’ve closed almost everything. There are no more shelters for homeless children.” She sighs. “Everything has been a downward spiral for the past decade and now – as you doubtless saw – has exploded.”

“That’s what that was?” Pól asks curiosity mixing the anger on his face.

“Partially, yes.” Ronit pauses to look over her shoulder to ensure that her granddaughter is no longer present. “There is so much more to it though. Many of the nobility around here have cut their serfs and servants lose. There are more men looking for work but there are fewer jobs. Many young men are into military service to avoid prison where they would be for theft even if they were only stealing so that they could to pay the taxes. The last straw seems to have been raids from the southeast. The nobility has no interest in repairing what the barbarians destroy and the Griffins have not lifted a single finger to ease the suffering of us common folk. They only seem to cater to the needs of the wealthy.” Contempt colors Ronit’s final words.

Pól’s face sags in a defeated expression. “I’ve heard nothing of this. Not even in the councils that I’ve attended in the capital.”

“It’s happened though. And we all have to deal with it.”

“I suppose,” Pól says as he looks beyond his mother.

“I hope you will still stay here, despite Sive’s bad manners. I would love to have you and Sive and Polly should have the chance to get to know you in any way. Especially Sive, even if she thinks that is far too late for the relationship to do her any good.”

“I’ll see what I can do for her. I have plenty of connections, I’m sure I could get her a job that pays decently that isn’t . . .” Pól flounders as he reaches words that he does not want to say, that he cannot say now that anger is no longer burning through him.

“I’m not sure how much good you’ll be able to do, but I would sure appreciate it. Moreover, if I had managed to pound any manners into her, she would appreciate it too.”

Pól nods slowly. “You said everything had _‘exploded’_ is that what is happening down near the mercat cross?”

Ronit nods emphatically. “We haven’t left the courtyard in a few days. People are clashing with the city guard and many have died. Nobody has drawn on the guard, but there have been deaths all the same.”

“Can I leave Mara here, or do I need to find one of the public stables and pay for a stall?” Pól’s eyes brighten as he speaks.

“She can stay. I’m sure Polly will be out here to look at her once Sive releases her,” Ronit says before continuing skeptically. “Why? Where are you going?”

Pól is already moving after the first words leave Ronit’s lips. “I’m going down to the mercat cross to see what is happening and to see if there is anything that I can do to help. If I can I would rather like to prevent any more deaths.”

* * *

 

The crowds and the noise are worse near the mercat cross Pól realizes after it takes him several minutes to move ten feet. He realizes that on his way into the city he had only encountered the edge. He feels like everyone from the city and all of the surrounding communities is crammed into the area that on certain days of the year is a large open-air market.

Pól uses his height to force his way through the crowd. Even though he stands several inches among most of the people present, he cannot see any end to the crowd even though everyone is moving. Suddenly the crowd is surging forward carrying Pól along with its terrifying momentum. He struggles to keep his feet. He can pay attention to very little else besides not falling down and being trampled until the crowd stops moving and he is deposited in front of a row of city guardsmen who have formed a wall with their shields.

Many of the guardsmen that Pól can see are young. Their own eyes are wide with fear. Given a different day or a different time, they would likely be on the other side of the barrier of shields.

Pól snaps his head to look when a man shouts for the crowd to be silent. The roar of voices all taking and shouting at once silence, but there is still sounds in the background of keening and other voices. The man who is speaking is standing atop a large object because he stands above the crowd and all can see him.

All eyes focus on the man whose ragged pants and shirt are dirty and hang off his skinny frame. His dark hair hangs lankly, dirtily around his face. The man surveys the crowd of people before he begins speaking. “Friends and brothers! You all know why we’re here today!” he shouts out over the crowd. He stops speaking because his words cannot pierce through the cheering of the crowd.

“Those greedy bureaucrats who PROCLAIM to do what is best for us,” he continues, “Have shut down our schools! They have taken away the homes for displaced women and children leaving our sisters and children to starve on the streets! WE WILL MAKE THEM BRING THOSE BACK! Their children get to attend schools and learn so that they don’t end up in the jails or dead!”

The cheer goes up again around Pól, but he frowns. He turns to a middle-aged man who is cheering next to him. “How?” he asks loudly.

“How?” Pól demands of anyone around him that can hear him.

The middle-aged man turns to him – his eyes are wide with excitement. “Doesn’t matter,” he shouts.

A guardsman with a plumed helmet makes his way through the lower ranking guards. They part before him; they close up behind just as quickly as they parted. He is the captain of the city guard.  His leather armor has gold toned scale mail over the shoulders and chest. The crowd parts around the captain as he makes his way forward to stand next to the leader of the crowd. The people move back in silence. The excited tension of the crowd gives way to something more wary and nervous.

They continue to shuffle backwards, whispering nervously to one another as the captain adjusts his belt and stares around at the gathered crowd. When the captain clears his throat, the nervous whispering stops. In a crowd of hundreds of people, Pól can hear only the shuffle of booted and bare feet on the stones of the square.

“People of Acle,” the captain begins. He does not shout, but his voice carries over their heads and echoes off the surrounding buildings. “You all know me. Moreover, I know most of you. I know that the recent cutbacks on public services have come as a shock and they have had a negative impact on our community.”

Some whispering resumes along with head nodding, but as soon as the captain begins speaking again it ceases.

“I have already spoken with the council members about your demands. I have told them that I believe that it would be best for our city if we could reestablish at least a few of the services that we have lost at whatever cost. However, they have assured me that they are doing everything that they can to bring back the schools, the shelters, and create more jobs for you fine people.”

The crowd begins grumbling, their discontented whispers are louder this time around.

“HOWEVER,” the captain shouts over the crowd. They silence. “They say that they cannot come to any solution that would restore ANY programs if you INSIST on remaining on their doorsteps shouting at all hours of the day! If you would but disperse they will have a solution within a fortnight!”

This time, as soon as the captain finishes speaking the leader of the people speaks. “What Captain Henry is telling us, brothers and sisters,” he shouts over the crowd. However, despite his volume, his voice carries much less authority and confidence than the captain’s voice did only moments before. “Is that we ARE making a difference. They are hearing us!”

A cheer goes up among the people despite the stern expression that emerges on Captain Henry’s face and the stiffening of the guardsmen at that expression.

“We ARE having an impact. Here. Right now! If we leave, we have no guarantee that they will fulfill any of what they have instructed the Captain – their puppet! – to tell us they will do. Because we will no longer be here, they will no longer think of us!”

“They cannot hear each other speaking to even try and deliberate over the problems that you want resolved, Matthew Smith!” Captain Henry roars over the sound of the crowd and the shouting of their leader.

“They will have no incentive to continue deliberating if we leave!” The man, Matthew Smith, screams back.

The clamoring of the people – each shouting their support for their leader – begins to rise and they begin to move forward as if they all wish to occupy the space right next to their leader.

With this surge of movement, Captain Henry retreats – this time without the courteous parting of the crowd – to his position behind the shield wall that the people are now pressing up against. “Keep them back!” Captain Henry roars to his men.

In response to their captain’s orders and to the threat that the people now pose since they are shoving at the guards the men draw wooden batons from their belts to beat back their attackers. The crowd continues forward, despite the weapons – that’s shining wood glints in the sunlight – against them – carrying Pól along with it. He struggled briefly to remain where he was and let the people move past him and around him, but that quickly proves to be a fruitless and hazardous endeavor as he is nearly throw to the ground.

Some of the younger, less experienced guards drawn their swords in the face of the charging crowd. The panic on their faces is clear, but the cold steel does nothing to inhibit the people who are shoving the guardsmen back. Soon, shouts of pain and of anger fill the air. Batons crack firmly against bone, but the swords slides easily, too easily, through soft, yielding flesh.

Blood quickly pools between the cobblestones resulting in hazardous footing. It quickly soaks through soft leather and cloth shoes that many of the citizens wear. Many slip and fall, spots of blood appearing in the process.

Pól moves through the crowd as quickly as he can. He cannot escape the crushing mass of people, but he can do what he can to help the wounded either from swords slashes or from broken bones. He falls a few times himself. Very few people present are free from bloodstains. This hinders Pól in his objective. Everyone present appears to sustain an injury of some sort. Most of those he asks, however, say that it is not theirs.

Despite the chaos, the guardsmen are performing as many arrests as they can manage without giving away ground or placing themselves in dangerous positions. There are not enough men present to take those who stand in handcuffs away. Men, women, and even a few children stand where the guardsmen leave them.

As Pól moves through the crowd, he does what little he can to prevent any further injuries. Most, however, he cannot prevent. He can do nothing, as he watches a boy, no older than twelve, end up on the receiving end of a baton blow. Even though Pól cannot hear the sicken crack that he knows accompanied the blow he feels it in the pit of his stomach as he watches the boy crumple into a heap in the road.

Pól rushes forward, to move the boy from the center of commotion, the help him, to do something. In his hurry, though, he slams into a first lieutenant guardsman.

The lieutenant’s hand snacks out and seizes a fistful of Pól shirt and waistcoat before Pól can move away.

“I’m not part of this,” Pól snaps irritably. He points to the embroidered emblem on the breast of his waistcoat “I’m a Griffin. I’m just trying to help the injured.”

Pól moves to jerk himself from the lieutenant’s grip, but the guardsman just tightens his grip. Pól stops pulling when he hears the rending of fabric. He frowns. “You can check it against the rolls if you’d like. My name is Pól Paulson my originating school was here. Now, I must go.” Silence and the tearing of his shirt is all the meets his words.

“Your position grants you no lenience is these matters,” the lieutenant grunts.

“Leniency!” Pól half-shouts in surprise. “Bloody hell man, I’m not doing anything.”

The lieutenant, however, listens not to a single word of Pól’s protestations. “Abe,” he shouts to another of the men. “Your handcuffs. I’ve run out.”

“Wait, just a minute!” Pól grabs the man’s wrist and moves to twist it back and free himself.

The moment Pól’s fingers close around the lieutenant’s large wrist the other man, Abe, a stocky second lieutenant, moves in to assist his comrade.

A sharp blow from Abe’s baton to the back of Pól’s knees throws him to his knees. Pól grunts.

“It matters not what your position is. You are among the savage brutes, that is enough to condemn you,” the first lieutenant says as he loses his grip on Pól’s shirt.

“I. Am. A. Griffin,” Pól bites out from his position on his knees.

“Sure you are,” Abe says patronizingly.

“I am,” Pól snarls as he lunges to his feet. The position as a Griffin demands respect from everyone including the nobility. The only person a Griffin needs to bow to or show deference to are to other Griffins who out rank them, elders of their own organization, and the king himself. The queen does not even demand the respect and loyalty of the Griffins.

Light explodes behind Pól’s eyes as Abe’s baton collides with his skull. This time, without the stabilizing influence of the first lieutenant’s grasp, Pól falls to his hands and knees. A wave of nausea rolls through his body causing him to wretch up the minimal contents of his stomach. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut against the sunlight that seems far too bright all of a sudden. He shivers at the tickled of a trickle of blood that rolls down his face from beneath his hairline.

The first lieutenant plants his foot between Pól’s heaving shoulder blades and shoves the Pól down to the pavement. He replaces his iron-shod boot with his knee. He forcibly pulls Pól’s arms behind his back and clamps the iron handcuffs shut around his wrists.

“Up you get,” the lieutenant grunts and he hauls Pól to his feet by his arms and ignoring the fact that he vomits again.

Pól stumbles as the guardsman shoves him forward.

“We’ll get the rebellion in hand, just you see,” the lieutenant promises as he roughly shoves Pól in among the rest of those who have been arrested.


	3. 03 - Cináed, 739

Fifth Age, 739  
Mid-Summer  
Northeastern Lands

**03 - Cináed**

“Can I come with you, Da?” Caoimhe asks from her perch at her father’s feet.

Cináed looks down at Caoimhe. She has a picture book open on her lap, but her round, brown eyes stare up at him. Cináed sets his own book down in his lap, still open to his page, before answering her question. “No, sweetheart. You and Bláthnat are going to stay here with Uncle Cian.”

“But, I want to come with you,” Caoimhe protests, shaking her head and causing her white-blonde hair to fan out around her face.

“Oh, dear,” Cináed says shaking his head slowly. “It’s an important meeting. Our king has summoned me. He is having a meeting and he wants me to be there.”

“Cahir likes me and Bláthnat,” Caoimhe says with a frown.

“He does indeed,” Cináed says ponderously. “He will not have any time for play, I’m afraid.”

“But –” Caoimhe begins to protest before her father cuts her off.

“Caoimhe, that’s enough. You cannot come with me,” Cináed interrupts sharply. When he sees his daughters sad, chastised face he adds gently, “I will not be gone long. It will be seven days at most.”

“Uncle Cian is weird though,” Caoimhe pouts.

“How about this,” Cináed says with a grunt as Caoimhe climbs into his lap. “While I’m away you keep track of every single weird and odd thing that your uncle does. And, as soon as I get back, you can tell me about every one of them. Hmm? Does that sound good?”

“I suppose so,” Caoimhe mutters into his neck.

Cináed brushes her hair back before he presses a kiss to her pale hair. “First thing when I get back,” he assures her softly. “I promise.”

“Alright.”

Father and daughter sit silently like that for a while as the light in the library dims as the sun rises outside the thick panes of glass and moves to another side of the manor where it will light the courtyard. A knock at the door disrupts their silence. Before Cináed can move to answer the door his brother opens it.

“Cináed, it’s getting late. If you wanted to start today you should get going,” Cian says.

“I’ll be going soon,” Cináed says softly to not disturb Caoimhe. “I just wanted to spend a bit of time with my favorite girl.”

“What’s Mati then?” Caoimhe interrupts the conversation.

“She’s my favorite woman,” Cináed says with a smile. “And you’re my favorite girl.”

“And Bláthnat? She’s a girl.”

“Bláthnat is a bug, and she is the very best bug I could wish for.”

Caoimhe makes a little whining noise as she rubs her face into her father’s shirt.

“Shhh…” Cináed soothes as he starts stroking her hair again.

“Are you telling the girl horror stories about me?” Cian accuses teasingly as he moves further into Cináed’s library and study.

Cináed chuckles, “I’ve been telling her that you like to bite babies’ heads off late at night.”

“Hmmm,” Cian grunts as he sits down in the chair opposite of Cináed. “What sort of babies’ heads am I supposed to be biting off?”

“Oh,” Cináed drawls. “All kinds. That’s why loads of our servants are scared of you.”

“Makes sense to me.” Cian winks at Caoimhe when she peeks out to look at him. “Anyways, brother, it is well past noon now. If you wait much longer z then you might as well wait for the morning because you won’t get far before it gets too dark to be riding.

“I suppose you’re right,” Cináed says as he rises from his chair holding Caoimhe to his chest.

“Cahir will be . . . _displeased_ . . . if I’m late.”

“You’re his favorite.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he wants me at _this_ meeting. There are plenty of others that I do not attend and everything is fine. What is so different about this meeting?” Cináed grumbles.

“I’ve heard rumors that there are problems on the mainland,” Cian says quietly. “You’re the only one on the council that has spent more than a handful of months on the mainland. You know the people and the systems there the best of anyone that Cahir routinely sees or associates with.

“Rumors? I’ve heard nothing.”

Cináed places Caoimhe on her feet. “Run along to the courtyard. I’ll see you before I leave,” he tells her.

Cian looks way from Cináed to stare out the window. “Not rumors in the way that you think of them, brother,” he says softly, almost a whisper.

“Oh,” Cináed takes his seat again. “Is it going to be bad?”

“It could be,” Cian says.

“What does that mean?” Cináed asks, his eyes searching to meet Cian’s, but Cian is still staring firmly out the window of the study out to the fields of wheat and the summer blue sky.

“Whatever happens at this council meeting that Cahir is holding could change whether or not the unrest goes away or if it only swells to greater proportions.”

“I suppose you have no tips on what actions would make it go away?” Cináed inquires hopefully as he leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

Cian shakes his head then clears his throat. “It is getting late though and you must be going.” He rises. “Keep in mind what I said though. Try to see how everything will play out in the end. Many of the other council members have a habit of focusing on what is best for them in the moment rather than looking ahead and planning.” Cian pauses before continuing, “I fear that if the unrest grows worse that it will destroy not only the nation but most of the kingdoms as well.”

* * *

 

When Cináed and his servant, Brand, ride up to King Cahir’s castle, it is raining. Not a drizzle, which may have proven to be a pleasant respite from the pounding heat of the summer sun. Rather the rain is a torrential downpour. Cináed can barely see the road ten feet in front of the horse, whose hooves keep sliding as the dirt road gives way and becomes a stream of running water. The pair had tried leading the horses, but that had proven to be even more hazardous. Brand has stepped in an unseen hole and twisted his ankle, which quickly swelled to more than twice its normal size. The made it impossible for the boy to lead his own horse, and Cináed can barely lead his own horse so they, which means that they are both mounted, once more.

A few bedraggled, wet, young men rush out of the stables when they see Cináed and Brand. No one else is in sight though.

“Just head inside, my lord,” one of the stablehands. “There’ll be someone to greet you. Its far too wet for anyone to be outside. There will be a fire going.”

Cináed nods. “Brand, stay with the horses.”

Brand trots off following the horses and the stablehands into the stables.

The great doors that open into the entry hall of the castle, which is dark and lit only by a large fireplace at one end of the hall. A few women sit on chairs clustered around the glowing light. Many of them turn as Cináed shoves the heavy door aside.

“Cináed Padraigson!” A delighted voice rings out from the group. The woman who spoke rises from her seat and quickly walks to greet him – skirts rustling – with a firm hug. “It has been forever since we saw each other.” The dark-haired woman pulls back allowing Cináed to see who has accosted him.

“That is no reason to attack me, cousin,” Cináed laughs.

Aifric stands on her tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to her cousin’s cheek. “I still miss the summers that we spent Blackrock together. It rains too much here in Séine,” Aifric laughs; her voice rings like a bell in the vaulted ceiling.

“It does.” Cináed chuckles; her laughter is infectious. “I’m afraid I may have ruined your dress,” he gestures to the large damp splotches that cover the front of her dress.

“I have too many as it is. Maybe Cahir’s mother will stop insisting that I get new ones if I ruin enough of them.” Aifric giggles, dimples showing.

“You should come visit sometime. Cahir is always so serious and bossy. We could use some fun around Blackrock. And I know that Bettina would be pleased to see you again.”

“Yes.” Aifric nods. “But for now you should hurry along to that meeting of his. He was making quite a fuss when you weren’t here last night. He was threatening to send some men out to your estate to drag you here if you weren’t already on your way.”

“Do I have time to put on dry clothing, at least?” Cináed asks, his smile disappearing. The council meeting is daunting and now its oppressive weight returns to rest heavily on his thoughts.

“I’m afraid not, Cin’,” Aifric says, straightening the color of Cináed’s shirt and waistcoat. “You should get in there. I’m afraid Cahir might be close to strangling some of them already even though it is still early. They’ve only been in there an hour or so and we’ve heard shouting a few times.”

Cináed quirks an eyebrow. “We’ll I better get in there. Cahir murdering some of the pompous grey-hairs.” He pauses. “They’re in the main hall, I assume.”

Aifric’s lips quirk upwards in a smile and she gives Cináed a gentle shove towards the intricately carved double doors that lead into the large, well-lit hall where banquets and balls are held along with the more serious events of council meetings.

Today, the sometimes warm and glowing hall is grey and full of flickering light as rain streaks down the tall stained glass windows. The muted tones of blue and gold cast themselves upon the grey stone floor, they almost sparkly dully in the rainy light. The large, square table is indeed full of men with grey hair; even Cahir has streaks of silver in his ebony hair.

The heated conversation comes to an abrupt halt as Cináed enters the room. The droplets of water that fall from his clothes make a soft ‘pat-pat’ sound as he strides across the grey flagstones. “I’m sorry I’m late, boys,” Cináed says loudly and nonchalantly, almost too loudly, he thinks when his voice echoes off the bare stone walls – walls that would be covered in thick tapestries during the long winter months.

Cahir rises as Cináed finds an empty seat. “So nice of you to join us,” Cahir drawls, slowly turning to face Cináed. “So nice to know that you didn’t drown and that you didn’t decide to ignore my orders . . . again.”

Cináed grins from his relaxed seated position. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to see you old friend.”

“Since you were late,” Cahir says scathingly, “I’ll need to fill you in and take up precious time that would be put to better use solving the issues that we have before us today.”

“How kind of you to enlighten me,” Cináed says with a grin.

Cahir glares at his favorite lord, his blue eyes blazing. “Silence,” he snaps.

“There have been whispers of rebellion in some of the cities on the eastern coast of the mainland. Acle in particular. As you all know, we trade extensively with the mainland. The ports where our trading vessels make berth are on the eastern seaboard. We are here to discuss these rumors. Whether or not they are valid and what we should do.

“Where the dock workers went on strike in some of the northern coast cities there were stories about ships being set ablaze before their cargo could be unloaded. When the sailors decided to unload their own cargo – so they could be paid and get out of there – some were killed, and many were maimed, leaving them unable to work on a ship or most other places for that matter.

“Luckily, we escaped any repercussions from that. The vessels affected were mainly those of foreign nations. However, with that in mind, we must consider what we are to do, officially, about the rumors and allegations about what is taking place in cities like Acle.” When Cahir finishes speaking, he sits down heavily into his chair. He looks around the room at the members of the council before his eyes stop to rest on Cináed. “What are your thoughts, Lord Blackrock?”

Cináed shifts in his chair, but he meets his king’s stony gaze. “I think we need more information. In the north, the strikes were carried out over wages. The dockworkers thought that their labor was worth more than they were being paid. What is happening in the eastern port cities could be very different. Maybe there is unrest, but if it is strictly political then it will likely have no direct effect on our trading industry.”

“We have little information,” Lord Burns snaps. “Did you not here what the king just said! We have only rumors and little to no hard evidence with which to make our decisions.”

“Should we not wait then?” Cináed snaps back. “To issue an embargo on those cities might be completely unfounded and disastrous!”

“Not for my ships or the men under my employ!” Lord Burns rises to his feet, his face turning read beneath his white beard.

“Lord Burns is correct,” Lord Bailey says quietly. He is the only lord who is on the council that is younger than Cináed. “If ships carrying barrels of my whisky are burned then I cannot afford to pay those who work my fields or work in my distilleries. I will also not be able to import linen from the ports on the northern parts of the east coast. Which will, in turn, make it difficult for tailors who purchase that cloth.”

“Of course you would agree with your father-in-law, you little snake,” General Fáel rumbles.

Lord Bailey looks away rather than confronting Fáel’s words as Lord Burns rises to his feet, his face growing redder by the second. “It is good for nobody,” Burns snarls. “If our ships are burned and our crews are maimed, no one will want to work for us anymore and we will be hard pressed to maintain our trading industry. And where will we be then? Where will we be?”

“Not broke,” Fáel says. “If we refuse to trade with them we will have no money to support _any_ industry that we have.”

“This is about more than just us and our industry,” Cináed interjects. “Its about the people of the mainland, particularly the port cities.”

“Why should the matter to us,” one of the older lords interjects. Cináed never bothered to learn the names of all the old men on the council. He assumed that they would all be dead and replaced soon enough and then he would be stuck learning the names of another set of men that he has to spend time with every so often.

“Because, we are all part of the same nation,” Cináed spits out. “Cahir is _our_ king, but he answers to High King Piers. We’re all interconnected. Hurting one part of the nation will somehow come back and hurt us as well. The High King might raise our taxes, might draft our ships, or he might place an embargo on our ports to match the one that we place on the eastern port cities.”

“How?” Lord Burns asks loudly. “How will this affect us? I only see negative effects if we continue our trade with the eastern cities. I see nothing bad that can come of it.”

Fáel speaks before Cináed can open his mouth. “Then you have a small and weak mind, Lord Burns,” Fáel drawls. “We will be left with very little income except that which takes place within our own borders. We do not share borders with any of the other regions. These trade routes produce much of our income which supports our prosperity.”

“Before we can decide anything we need to have _some_ idea of what is actually happening. Don’t we have any ship’s captains who can speak to what they saw? Who brought these rumors to us; can’t they tell us more than just hearsay?” Cináed interrupts before the debate can continue down that path.”

Fáel answers, “One of my captains – he has family on the mainland that he corresponds with regularly – told me what his family told him. He told me that it seems like generalized unrest and rebellion that is affecting anything. There seem to be quite a few problems that are spurring these rumors. Such as loss of jobs in general, high crime, etc.”

“So, placing an embargo on those cities because we fear full blown rebellion might prove to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. By sending our ships elsewhere or nowhere at all, we might be the final spark that sends the coast up in flames.”

“What’s that matter to us if they burn?” Lord Burns says callously. “I _need_ to make a prophet as do all merchants.”

“If we send our ships there and you are wrong, Lord Blackrock, we lose quite a lot,” one of the other lords says softly. “And you come out the fool. We lose, the people in the cities lose, nothing good happens if you are wrong.”

“And if I’m right?”

“Some good and some bad. But the chances of you being correct are what I am questioning.”

“Rumors of unrest have been steadily increasing along with the signs of general unrest,” Fáel agrees. “Despite the fact that I agree with Lord Blackrock that it will be detrimental for us to embargo those ports, I think the chances of him being correct about us being the nail in the coffin are less likely. It seems more likely that things will progress as they are and we had best be out of the way if we don’t want to get hurt.”

Around the table, there is a general nodding and grumbles of assent at Fáel’s words. Some agreements are more enthusiastic than others are. Many simple mumble and node while others, Lord Burns included, shout their delight and grin wolfishly. Lord Burns and Lord Bailey’s faces split into twin grins of pleasure at having thrown Cináed’s words aside.

“An embargo then?” Lord Burns says, his question coming out more as a statement. “Prevent our ships from being burned, attacked by privates, or getting stuck in ports if they are blockaded by pirates.

Cináed clenches his fists beneath the edge of the table to disguise his frustration at the blindness of the other council members. He winds his fingers into the still damp fabric of his kilt to prevent his fingernails from cutting into the palms of his hands. He can _feel_ Cahir’s icy blue eyes fixed on him.

Silence falls over the room as Cahir stands, his wooden chair scraping loudly on the stone flagstones. “It’s nearly time for lunch. Why don’t we take a break for a while? There are other things that we’ll need to discuss this afternoon, but, for now, let’s break for a few hours.”

Cináed stands quickly and makes his way to the door – eager to change into dry clothing or to dry his clothing a bit more. He can feel his skin chaffing a bit under the wet clothing. However, before he can reach the door Cahir’s voice stops him.

“Cináed, a moment please.”

Cináed suppresses the urge to groan loudly. He turns slowly to wait for the king to catch up with him.

“The council has other things that it needs to discuss. The items are more mundane. I really wanted you here for something else,” Cahir says quietly as he reaches Cináed.

Cináed raises his eyebrows. “Something else?”

“Something that will be discussed in a more private setting in my chambers tonight,” Cahir says as he leans close to prevent other ears from overhearing.

“May I ask who else will be there?”

“A few others, General Fáel, Aifric will be among them. This is much more important than the embargo of the eastern ports.

“Does it have anything to do with the rumors?” Cináed presses, not wanting to be caught completely off guard later.

“It does, it does,” Cahir nods. “The letter from Fáel’s family mentioned a great deal more than just a few minor problems in some of the port cities. There is much more going on in the mainland. Things that put much at stake. But, we will discuss this in greater detail tonight.”

Before Cináed has time to say anything in response Cahir is far enough away that Cináed’s words would be loud enough for everyone else present to hear and, with the secrecy that Cahir seems to desire, it would be unwise to speak at such a volume.

* * *

 

By the time that Cahir sends a servant to fetch Cináed from one of the small guest chambers on the first floor of the large castle the rain has stopped falling. A watery and wane sunlight now trickles through the multi-colored windows that line the main hallway.

Cahir and Aifric occupy a sofa when Cináed joins them in silence. They exchange no greetings rather they simply nod. Fáel and Rían, Cahir’s eldest son, soon join them in equal silence.

“Is this everyone?” Cináed asks when Cahir orders his guard to leave and make sure that no one enters the room or lingers too long outside the door trying to listen to the goings on.

Cahir simply nods. “I trust no one else with this information. I wanted my son to join us, as he needs to learn how these things progress. It is going to further his education.”

“Enough jawing,” Fáel interrupts. “Why have you called us here? I’ve got my men to be seeing to tonight. I do not have time for merely catching up on the gossip.”

“Patience, Fáel,” Cahir snaps. Turning to the other members of the group he continues, “What we discuss here does not leave this room. IF it does and it reaches the wrong ears we could all be in trouble.”

Everyone affirms their understanding of Cahir’s words.

“Cináed, I told you earlier that Fáel’s letter from his family contained much more than just information about what is currently a small, contained rebellion.” Cahir pauses to adjust his position, leaning back and wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “There is something much more ominous at work.

“Fáel?” Cahir offers the conversation over to the other man.

“My Liege is correct,” Fáel states. “The letter from my sister carried more important news. Yet, nothing as overt and obvious as what is happening on the eastern coast. These are much less concrete and much more dangerous. There is a feeling of rebellion and whispers in dark corners – or so my sister wrote – of a rebellion against High King Piers.”

Rían and Cináed, the only two present who are hearing this information for the first time, shift to lean forward with their elbows resting on their knees. Cináed expression wrinkles into a frown.

“You know that His Majesty’s rule is failing. His families hold on the capital has become tenuous at best over the past couple generations. When he first took the throne, he showed promise. Hope in that hinted at promise has proved to be unfounded as scandal and corruption continues to maintain its grip on the higher echelons of the mainland. It would appear that the general population has begun to lose faith in him. They whisper about overthrowing his family and placing someone new on the high king’s throne.”

“Do we know who they want to replace Piers with?” Rían interrupts impetuously, his blue eyes – that match his father’s eyes – flashing with interest and ill-considered hope.

“No. They have not. I assume they aspire for it to be ‘one of the people’ so that they have a king who ‘understands them’.”

Fáel’s words dash away the hope that gleamed in Rían’s eyes.

“There is always hope and rumors of that. What makes this time any different?” Cináed asks as he remembers the similar plots that he overheard in the back of taverns during his time as a Griffin.

Cahir answers, “Before these ideas were restrict to the plains – where Piers’ ineptitude is felt most keenly by the people – because he is ruling them directly. Now, however, these whisperings come from the various regions. We have even found them here. They seem to still like me,” Cahir answers Cináed’s question before he can ask it. “Their trust in me remains unchanged while their trust in Piers has been sharply declining recently.”

“Does it have anything to do with his son’s actions?” Cináed asks remembering the scandal that recently shook most of the nobility – no matter the region – involving the king’s second eldest son, Kent.

“It might, but we don’t know,” Fáel answers gruffly. “All we know is that it is happening. It doesn’t matter what’s actually causing it.”

“What I want to discuss here is if we should take advantage of this and set ourselves up better in the long run,” Cahir says. “With regions discussing overthrowing the current king they will probably only replace him with someone else that we don’t know. Someone who is less likely to cater to our needs since we are separate from the mainland.”

“What do you mean by ‘take advantage’,” Cináed asks skeptically.

“Should we break away now, while forces are occupied on the east coast before there is a new ruler in place who is looking for somewhere to prove his strength and prowess is all ways that he can.”

Silence meets Cahir’s words. Aifric frowns and shifts away from her husband to give him a skeptical look that implies that she thinks that he has lost his wits. Rían’s eyes light up again at the prospect of being the heir to a free kingdom rather than one that bends its knee to a foreign power from across the sea. Fáel’s face remains unchanged and serious while Cináed cracks his knuckles nervously.

“How much thought have you given this,” Cináed asks slowly, not meeting Cahir’s eyes.

“Incessantly.”

Cináed groans internally. “I don’t think we should.”

Cahir frowns, a furrow between his eyebrows appearing. “Why?”

Cináed rubs his hands over his face in frustration. “I can’t believe you can’t see this, Cahir.”

“Watch it,” Cahir growls. “I’m still your king.”

Cináed’s grey eyes flash, but he lets the slight pass. It was rare for Cahir to pull rank on Cináed, but it always rankles Cináed when he does. “You know just as much about mainland bureaucracy if not more. Any rebellion on the eastern coast – if it expands into anything of concern – the Griffins will quickly quell any such movement. Just like they have always dealt with any other rebellion against the crown. If we, as a country, leave now they will quickly turn to us and we will feel all the force that they can muster. Are we prepared for a large-scale war that this will likely incite?”

Fáel crosses his arms. “We’re not. Our standing army has never been large, but recruitment keeps dropping with every passing year. The recruits we do get are green and less intelligent than we would prefer.”

Cahir rises and begins passing back and forth from the door to the fireplace and back. “We don’t want war.

“Do you really think that it would come to war?” Cahir asks, pausing in his pacing.

“Yes,” Cináed replies firmly. “Only during the time that Piers is being toppled – if that even happens, mind you – would be the best. It will be likely that other regions will be doing the exact same thing. And, when a new government is established we are separated from them by an ocean whereas the other regions are nearby and easily accessible. I think that would be the only time we could separate in the most safety.”

“Piers’ recent restrictions on trade and the way shops must be maintained have been chafing at our industry.” Cahir sits down heavily on the couch next to his wife. “I was hoping that there might be an easier way out of it than arguing with the council.”

Cináed chuckles. “I can’t believe that it would be easier to separate from the high king rather than fighting a few regulations.”

“You had better believe it,” Cahir grumbles. “Fighting those crotchety old men in the capital is worse than dealing with our council here.”

“You know that you’re getting up there in years,” Cináed teases to lighten the mood. “You can be considered to be one of those crotchety old men in a few years.”

“Hey,” Cahir grumbles even though a smile is tugging at his lips.


	4. 04 - Pól, 739

Fifth Age, 739  
Mid-Summer  
Eastern Coast, Acle

**04 - Pól**

Pól comes around with a groan. His entire body hurts abominably. His head aches and his knees are tender with bruises that he does not have to see to know are there. His shoulder, which twists behind him, is the worst source of pain. It aches deeply. It is a pain that he is familiar with; he has injuring his dominant shoulder multiple times during his life. The first was when he was only a boy. He had a habit of climbing the trees in the secluded courtyard. He had fallen one day and crunched his shoulder. His shoulder never was quite the same after that. Extensive sword training made it ache, and archery was almost impossible. Continued injuries worsened the shoulder’s condition. Today, when on duty, the sword he carries on his hip is more of a display than a practicality. He relies more on his hand-to-hand combat training and knife skills than wielding a sword. However, the sword part of a Griffins uniform and he must wear it when he is acting in any official capacity.

Pól’s stomach rolls with nausea as he tries to move to take the pressure off his bad shoulder. When he tries to pull his arm around to cradle it to his chest, cold, hard metal, which is restraining his wrists behind his back, stops his movement. “Wha –” Pól groans groggily as he tries to piece back what he remembers from before he took a blow to the head.

“Shhh,” a female soothes him.

Pól starts violently, which jerks painfully on his shoulder, causing him to groan again. He slowly turns his head to prevent pulling on his restrained shoulder and avoid the nausea that threatens to roil through his body.

Pól finds himself looking up at and older woman, her hair – brown with sparse grey streaks – falls over her shoulder in a loose braid. Her brown eyes crease with worry. “Who are you?” he slurs.

“Tatum,” she replies. “I’m a Griffin like you,” she gestures to the embroidered emblem on his waistcoat.

Only after she says that she is a Griffin does Pol notice the same emblem is emblazed on the dark green tabard that she wears over her shirt and breeches. “Ah . . .” he mumbles. He closes his eyes. Much of his body aches; if it is not from the beating he took it is from laying on the stone floor with nothing between his body and the stones that are forever cool to the touch despite the heat outside.

“Don’t sleep!” Tatum snaps shaking Pól’s shoulder. He groans as the unexpected and jerky movement triggers another bout of nausea and makes lights flash behind his eyes. “You were already passed out when I found you, but you can’t sleep again. You might have a brain injury.”

“How long have I been out?” Pól asks. “And why do I still have handcuffs when your hands are free?”

“Several hours at least. With no light in here, it is difficult to judge time. And, as for the handcuffs, you were still unconscious when they came through. They made everyone come up the bars and stick their hands through. I couldn’t lift you and they wouldn’t come in. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until one of those pissant guards comes back through here.”

Pól rolls his shoulder to ease some of the tingling pain that is extending down his arm into his fingers. “I know why I’m here, but why are you here?” he inquires. “You look like a respectable member of the Griffins unlike myself.”

Tatum laughs at that. Several other people in the cell turn to look at them. Their dark eyes heavy with suspicion. Tatum makes a rude gesture in response. “I’m not as upstanding as you might think,” Tatum says with a smile. “I never progressed beyond a novice.” She gestures again to the emblem that only has three stars compared to four on Pól’s emblem. “Our Skhimnik said I spent far too much time with the lay people. He said that I was too invested in their lives and not invested enough in life on campus.

“I’m here for the same reason you are. I was taking part in the protest, but I was trying to make young Matthew see some sense and go about this in a much more diplomatic way. However, he wouldn’t listen. I was there to try to make sure nothing got out of hand, but it did, despite my best efforts. However,” Tatum smiles, flashing white teeth, “I don’t think you were there for the same reason I was. I haven’t seen you around Acle’s campus.”

“I’m from the capital. I was raised here. I completed my apprenticeship here. They sent me to the capital for my years as an acolyte. It has remained my appointment location ever since. My family still lives here. I was back here visiting and my mother told me some things that upset me, so I came to see what was happening. I was actually trying to help those who were injured. It was going just fine until some bloody overzealous guardsman got their hands on me,” Pól explains slowly having to stop and think between each sentence.

“Oi! You two, Griffins!”

Pól instinctively turns his head to look in the direction of the shout and immediately regrets it.

“Yes,” Tatum snaps at the young guardsman who spoke. “What do you want?”

“You two are free to go. A lawyer from the campus has come down and has ordered that the two of you be released.”

“About time,” Tatum grumbles as she shifts so that she can rise to her feet. “You think they would have sent someone hours ago.”

“Boy,” Tatum shouts to the young guard, whose ears flush pink at the derision in her tone. “My companion cannot rise. You will need to uncuff him and help him walk out.”

“I don’t need help to walk,” Pól protests. “Once my hands are free I’ll be alright.”

“But . . .” the guard begins to protest.

“Now, boy!” Tatum shouts at the guard authoritatively, her voice drowning out Pól’s and the guard’s voices.

The guard fumbles with the keys in his hast to obey the order from Tatum; he drops the keys more than a few times before he gets the correct one into the lock. After he manages to unlock the door, he is by Pól’s side in moments even though he half-trips over one of the other prisoners who is sleeping. The guard jerks on Pól’s wrists and he unlocks the handcuffs and frees Pól’s hands.

Pól gasps in pain as he moves his arm around to the front of his chest and rolls onto his back. The position, while painful, had numbed his shoulder and a portion of his arm. While still uncomfortable it is nothing when compared with the shooting pains he experiences once his arm is freed and the blood begins flowing properly again. He cradles it close to his chest with his good hand he begins roughly his shoulder joint.

The guard moves quickly to obey everything that Tatum said. He grabs for Pól’s arm to haul him to his feet.

The unexpected hand on Pól’s bad arm causes him to snarl. “Touch that arm and I’ll make sure you only have one arm.”

The boy cowed by Pól’s words, steps back and offers Pól one of his own hands instead. Pól digs his fingers into his shoulder joint attempting to ease the pain for a few moments more before reaching for the young guardsman’s hand. Pól’s weight nearly pulls the slight guard over. Once Pól is on his feet, he pushes the boy away. “I can walk on my own,” he assures Tatum and the guard when they both look at him as if he is about to fall over at any moment. “I’m alright,” he says more firmly when they continue to look at him skeptically.

Tatum and Pól follow the guardsman through a maze of cells and down several flights of stairs. Pól does end up leaning on Tatum’s shoulder while they descend the winding staircases. An impeccably dressed man in cream colored breeches, stockings, shirt, waistcoat, coat, and cravat. His nearly black hair is tied back with a piece of ribbon that matches his suit.

“Ah, there you are,” the lawyer says in a nasal tone. He turns his attention to the gangly guardsman. “Is this all of them?”

“Yes sir,” the boy mumbles. “There were only two of them arrested that I could tell.”

“Good, good,” the lawyer presses a purse into the young guard’s hand. “You should be able to pay for a year’s rent with that. Now off with you,” he shoos the boy away leaving the two Griffins in a small room with the lawyer. The lawyer looks over the pair of them. “I don’t recognize you,” he addresses Pól.

“Shush,” Tatum says grumpily. “He’s stationed in the capital. He was visiting family here. I’m not trying to smuggle anyone out that shouldn’t be coming out with me.”

The lawyer purses his lips and raises his eyebrows looking exasperated. “I’m Gary Greyson, I’m the lawyer employed for the campus here in Acle. Skhimnik Jeb send me down here. He thinks it would be best, given you position, that you not be processed with any official paperwork on your arrests.”

“That’s bloody fantastic,” Tatum grumbles.

Pól grunts his agreement, but the persistent pain in shoulder distracts too much to pay attention the man. Even if it were not for the pain, he never made much of a point to listen to men who dressed in all white. Pompous, and of little use to anyone, or so he feels.

Gary ignores both of them. He straightens the cuffs of his jacket. “Come now, there is a covered wagon waiting outside for us. It’s a good thing too. You,” he looks at Pól, “look like you’re in any shape to walk more than a few yards.”

“I’m fine,” Pól growls again. “I’m better equipped to walk the streets than you are,” he gestures to Gary’s pristine clothing with a node of his head.

Gary simply turns on his heel and walks to the door. He does not even look over his shoulder to make sure that Tatum and Pól are following him.

“Bloody bureaucrat,” Tatum grumbles acidly. “The lot of them. Of course, Skhimnik would want to keep this quiet. It would reflect badly on him and then his salary would be cut. The pompous asshole could use with his salary being cut if you ask me.”

* * *

 

 “Skhimnik Jeb will want words with you and every other Griffin who was at the protest in the morning,” Gary informs Tatum and Pól when the wagon pulls up to the main gates of the campus. “He says if you’re not there, there will be serious repercussion, including possible expulsion from the order. It will take place at the second bell after dawn in his receiving room.”

Tatum pulls a face. “Fine.”

Tatum helps Pól down from the back of the wagon. His balance is off since he is still keeping his right arm tucked close to his chest.

As the wagon pulls away, Tatum looks at Pól who is looking a little pale around the edges.

“Are the dorms still in the same place?” Pól asks straightening up.

“They are,” Tatum answers. “But that’s not where you are going.”

“Where am I going then? I’m tired. I would like some sleep,” Pól says angrily.

Tatum pats his arm. “No sleep, not yet. You need to see to see the physician before you do anything.”

“I’m fine,” Pól grumbles. It feels like that has been all he has been saying all day.

“You’re not. You took quite a blow to the head from what I can see, and I’m still not entirely convinced that you don’t have a concussion. Someone should also look at the shoulder as well if it is still bothering you.”

“It’s always bothering me. It’s an old injury; I’ve been dealing with it for most of my life. And I don’t need a physician, I need sleep.” With his final words, Pól jerks his good arm from Tatum’s grasp and starts to walk away. However, he only makes it a few steps before he stumbles badly and falls to his knees. He hunches over and squeezes his eyes shut trying to settle his stomach that had been irritated by the rough wagon ride and now by his fall.

“Would you like help?” Tatum asks coolly.

Pól does not reply. Rather, he starts to press himself back up to his feet only to have his balance disappear again once he is almost upright. “Yes,” he answers tightly through gritted teeth.

“Come then,” Tatum says brightly as she takes Pól’s good arm and starts to half-lead half-drag him in the direction of the medical building.

Most of the paths on the Cær’s green campus are empty at this late hour. There are still people hurrying back and forth in the darkness. Usually, the walkers are young and alone. More often than not, they carry a few books tucked under their arm. As empty, as the grounds are in the dim light of the summer’s dusk there are plenty of windows that are alight with candles and lamps. They glow warmly, welcomingly in the warm darkness. The flickering lights and the silence make Pól miss the place in a way that he had not missed it for years.

Tatum kicks the door to the medical building open with her foot. “Charles!” she shouts. “Are you here?”

Before the final words even leave Tatum’s mouth, a small, grey-haired man is hurrying into the small entry hall. “Shhh, my dear, shhh! There is no reason to shout!” he assures her in a loud whisper of his own.

“Charles,” Tatum says fondly with a smile. “I thought you might have retired on me and let one of those baby bonecrushers take your place.”

Charles snorts loudly before rubbing at his nose. “Bah! Retire! Never! The idiots that would replace me have no idea what they are doing. They are all useless. I can’t believe that managed to pass any of their examinations.

Tatum and Charles share a wide grin.

“Who’s this then?” Charles inquires, pushing his spectacles up his long nose.

“Pól. He took a blow to the head at the very least. He was unconscious when I found him, but I’ve kept him awake since then. He’s said his shoulder’s fine; that it is an old injury and nothing to worry about,” Tatum explains.

“I can speak for myself,” Pól interjects rudely, but the other two ignore him completely.

“Bring him back here,” Charles says as he turns and motions for them to follow him.

The medical ward is much the same as Pól remembers it. The only thing that is different is that all the beds are empty with clean white sheets pulled tight after mattresses. He remembers there always being injuries while training. He wonders what has changed to lessen minor training injuries to nothing. The lamps are dim except for the one that Charles is turning up.

Tatum deposits Pól onto one of the beds before turning to Charles. “I must be going. It has been a long day and I need some rest and some food before the lecture that we are bound to get in the morning.”

“Good night, my dear,” Charles says nodding his head.

Tatum sticks her head back through the door as she is shutting it, “Oh, I almost forgot. He hasn’t had any food in quite a while. I’m sure he’ll be wanting some.” With that, she is gone and the heavy wooden door swings shut with a heavy sound.

“How kind of her,” Pól drawls irritably once she is gone.

“Tatum’s a good girl,” Charles scolds. “She brought you here. She cares about people and wants to make sure that they’re all right. That’s been her downfall in the Griffins, but she is still an amazing woman.

“Now, take that shirt off so I can get a look at your shoulder.”

Charles shuffles away while Pól struggles to pull his grimy waistcoat and shirt off. When Charles is back Pól says, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to get those back on.” Pól’s voice carries a note of amusement.

“I daresay not,” Charles says as he leans forward to inspect Pól’s shoulder.

“It’s an old injury. I hurt it when I was a boy and multiple times since. I cannot even wield a sword anymore,” Pól explained despite the fact that Charles had not asked him anything about it. “The long time I spend in cuffs with it twisted behind me has just irritated it. It is fine,” Pól insists.

“It is definitely irritated,” Charles concedes slowly poking at the joint causing Pól to flinch back.

“And tender!” Pól snaps.

Charles disappears through a side door and returns with a pack. “Here, hold this to your shoulder,” Charles orders forcibly. “I need to look at your head. Are there any other injuries?”

Pól takes the ice pack and slowly presses it against the front of his shoulder joint. He hisses as the pack makes contact with his skin. Once the initial shock of temperature is gone, the cold sooths the heated pain in the joint.

“Everything else is just bumps and bruises.”

Charles peers at his patient through his spectacles. “Can I trust you to be honest with me? Or should I make you strip and check for myself?”

When Charles sees the sour expression on Pól’s face he continues, “I’d rather do that now than have Tatum coming back in here furious and accusing me of failing to do my job.” He chuckles. “It takes quite a bit to get that girl angry, but once she is . . .” he trails off with a smile and shakes his head.

Pól sighs and shifts in his seated position. “I took a blow to the knees from behind. I fell on my knees. I took the blow to the head. And, I was handcuffed. As far as I know, that is the extent of my injuries.”

Charles grins. “Good lad.” He claps his hand on Pól’s shoulder. “After I check your head wound and clean it I’ll wrap that shoulder and then give you something to eat. I’ll have a few questions for you before I can let you sleep, but you seem lucid enough, so you will likely be allowed to sleep.”

* * *

 

The next morning Tatum bounds into the room. Charles had insisted that Pól sleep in the medical ward overnight citing the late hour and the fact that Pól was unsteady on his feet for a variety of reasons. Pól is curled onto his left side to avoid putting pressure on his shoulder that Charles has wrapped and bound firmly to his chest.

“Time to get up,” Tatum orders when she comes to stand next to Pól’s bed.

Pól groans and attempts to pull the light cotton blanket over his head.

“None of that,” Tatum says with a smile in her voice. She takes hold of the blanket and pulls it far enough down that Pól cannot reach it with his good arm. “Jeb’s lecture is soon. We need to be there. I don’t know about you, but I do not want to lose my however minor position here.”

“Fine,” Pól snaps grumpily. He rolls out of the bed clumsily. “Can you help me get that on?” Pól gestures to his waistcoat that is hanging on a hook beside the bed. “I can’t get it on by myself and I’d prefer to be somewhat fully dressed when the Skhimnik gives us a dressing down.”

After Tatum helps Pól into his waistcoat, the pair make their way over to the great hall where meals are held along with any large gathering. “Why come back?” Pól inquires. “You have no reason to keep coming back to help me out.”

Tatum smiles brightly. “You just seem like you need a bit of help.”

Pól grunts in response but does not say anything.

The great hall is large and can accommodate well over one hundred people easily. However, today, there are only about a dozen sitting on wooden benches in small clusters talking quietly among themselves. They were all dressed in the green and brown of the Griffins, but none of their uniforms are tidy. Most of the men’s waistcoats, like Pól’s, are not buttoned; they hang open and flap in the slight breeze that comes in through the square clear windows that are open to the outside.

A few look up when Tatum and Pól enter the room. One of the younger men who turned – an acolyte by the short crop of his hair – winks at Pól cheekily. Pól frowns but ignores the boy. It was the boy’s master’s job to discipline him; it was not Pól’s responsibility to keep the boy’s behavior in line.

Pól drops heavily onto a wooden bench. He taps the fingers of his good hand impatiently on the table in front of him. Tatum sits down beside him. “The second bell is already gone,” Pól grumbles. “He better hurry up or I’m going to leave to find something to eat and go home.”

“Shush,” Tatum chides. “He’s always been one for displays of power Jeb has.”

When she finishes speaking a door to the side of the hall – a door that leads to the dorms and classrooms – opens and a physically imposing middle-aged man in the Skhimnik uniform enters; his boot steps ring out on the stone floors.

Pól leans over to Tatum. “I know him; we were apprentices together when we were children. He’s from the same neighborhood I’m from.”

“Shhh . . .” Tatum elbows Pól in the ribs.

“I take it that this is all of you?” Jeb’s voice is deep and full of disappointment.

Mumblings, grumblings of assent, and head nods come from all of those present. However, Skhimnik Jeb looks to the man who walked in with him for confirmation that all who need to be present art.

Once the Skhimnik receives the confirmation that he needs he continues speaking. “It is good that you are all present. That keeps me from having to issue punishments that could be easily avoided.”

Jeb steps forward, closer to those who are under his control. “I assume that you all know exactly why you are here this morning,” he says with a hint of acid in his tone. “You were present at rally/riot/protest – whatever you want to call it – yesterday despite my orders to stay on campus and as far away from the crowd as possible. I know some of you are not from this Cær, but that does not excuse your behavior.

“I expect all Griffins, no matter the rank, to have better judgement when it comes to attending a display like the one that took place yesterday. Were any of you even thinking about how your actions would look to the people of this city? Hmm?” Jeb pauses and looks over those present. Looking as if he actually expects an answer.

Most of the higher ranking Griffins present have the sense to look ashamed and avoid meeting the Skhimnik’s eyes as he looks across the room. The lower ranking apprentices and acolytes who lack common sense and fear stare back at him.

“Well, Mark?” Jeb demands of one of the foolish acolytes who met his gaze.

“We did not think, sir, that’s the problem,” the acolyte says quietly while hanging his head.

“Exactly,” Jeb booms. “Not a single one of you thought about what you were doing yesterday. Your presence in the crowd gives people hope for their cause. They will be fooled into thinking that their cause in just. They will also think that their cause has support among people of importance. Something I _guarantee_ you is as far from the truth as possible.”

Pól sits listening to the Skhimnik speak. He stops tapping his fingers and stares at Jeb. Pól’s chest swells in annoyance at Jeb’s condescending tone of voice.

When Pól stands Jeb stops talking to look at him. “There is no reason to speak to us like we were children, Jeb.”

Jeb frowns. “Pól? It has been a long time. However, this is what needs to be said. Behavior like this will not be tolerated. To be honest, I would expect better from you.”

Pól ignores much of what Jeb said. “You said that Griffin’s participation in the ‘protest’ would show the people that their allegations and cause have support where, in fact, there is no support. But, what if we,” Pól gestures around the room, “think that the cause is more than just and that the people have perfectly valid complaints that should be heard and addressed. I think that us being present was necessary rather than a gross overstepping of our professional lives.”

“I can assure that our administration and the administration of Acle does _not_ support your actions or the actions of the people of the city who were present yesterday,” Jeb says loudly.

“The schools have closed,” Pól snaps. He moves out from behind the table to stand in the aisle. “I think that’s reason enough for them to be upset. You might not support the peoples’ complaints, but you should!”

Tatum and the rest of the Griffins sit with their jaws all but hanging open and the confrontation that is taking place before them.

Jeb crosses his arms. “Do you care to tell me _why_ I should support such behavior?”

“Actually I would. Take the schools for instance. Without those schools our numbers were be far fewer. You should know that even if the rest of the bloody bureaucrats do not. When I was a boy, I went to school because I had nothing else to do. I was a petty thief in my spare time. I never stole anything that was worth much. However, without the school, and my subsequent recruitment into the order I would have lost both of my hands and both of my ears for stealing before I reached the ripe, old age of twenty. The school gave me a vocation even before I became an apprentice at this very Cær. Between school and the work they set up for me I was kept out of the worst of the trouble that I might have gotten into otherwise.

“I know, Jeb, that your story is the same. You only lives a few streets over from my own. Without the school in that district, we would have been nothing more than a pair of crippled beggars before we were even old enough to know better.”

Some of the younger members, who were unaware of their Skhimnik’s origins, stared at him with wide-eyes.

“Times were different then. You know that, Pol,” Jeb says gruffly.

“They were indeed,” Pól concedes. “I can tell you how different they were. I was given a career and another option in life beyond that of the criminal element. I would like to think that I have made a difference during my time with the Griffins. However, things are not so nice down in the docks district.

“My daughter, Sive, was only a child when the schools closed for good. I had been stationed in the capital for several years at the point and knew nothing of this. I have not been much of a father, I admit to that; my presence might have changed her life course, but I was not here. The schools closed. Which left my daughter with only one career path open to her. None of the middle-class families wanted to hire an “uneducated guttersnipe” as a maid or a nurse. I’m sure everyone present here is familiar with the pleasure district. The disreputable characters in that district were the only ones willing to offer a job to a poor woman who had received very little in the way of education. Now, if that were not bad enough she already has one daughter and is heavy with a second child. Those children face that _exact_ same future. They have no hope of having any profession that is legal.” Pól stares accusingly at Jeb.

Jeb does not answer for several long moments. The hall is silent except for Pól’s heavy breathing. “The schools’ closing cannot be reverse. That was not my decision. My predecessor made that decision. There is no money for schools that cannot make a profit.”

“So there is a school for children of those who can afford to send their children. Children who already had a future are given the means to better their futures. Their parents could just as easily afford private tutors for their little darlings. The schools for the poor children did the most good,” Pól half shouts.

“I’m afraid the poor will just have to get used to living their lives without such comforts. The parents should try harder to get their children reputable work or apprenticeships,” Jeb says firmly, crossing his arms.

“Now,” Jeb turns to walk back to the front of the hall to address all who are present, “Back to what we were talking about.”

Pól turns on his heel and strides to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jeb’s voice booms through and echoes off the rafters when he sees Pól’s back.

“Home,” Pól snaps back furiously.

“If you walk out that door there will be consequences to face,” Jeb threatens.

Pól grins wolfishly. “I look forward to those _consequences._ ”

Pól shoves the door open with a kick and a shove from his good arm and lets it slam behind him; the sound echoes through the mostly empty hall in his wake.

* * *

 

Pól arrives back in the courtyard of his mother’s house after a long and dusty walk. Ronit is hanging wet laundry on a line while Polly plays at her feet. The little girl pauses in her play every so often to watch Mara who is grazing on the overgrown grass of the courtyard.

Ronit turns when she hears Pól’s footsteps crunching on the gravel. Her eyes widen when she sees her son’s state. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing that hasn’t happened before.” Pól winks at Polly when he sees that she is watching him from behind her great-grandmother’s skirts.

Pól turns his attention back to his mother. “Can you help me saddle Mara, please?”

“Of course, where are you going?” Ronit asks, dusting her hands off on her apron.

“Back to the capital.”

“I thought you had a month of leave.”

“I do. But . . . I’m sorry, Ma. There is something that I need to deal with back in the capital. I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Pól apologizes.

“Never mind,” Ronit says as she moves to get the saddle blanket. “Sive and Polly don’t know you enough to miss you when you’re gone. Just try to come back before Polly is grown and I’m gone.”

Pól wraps his good arm around Ronit’s shoulders and pulls her close. “I’ll try. I promise,” Pól whispers as he presses a kiss to her greying hair.


	5. 05 - Bettina, 739

Fifth Age, 739  
Late Summer  
Western Mountains, Arnagburg

**05 - Bettina**

Bettina bounces the child up and down in her arms attempting to soothe the child’s hungry wails. “Shhh. Shhh. Shhh,” she hushes the child. “Your mother will be done shortly, little one.”

The baby just cries louder, clearly not caring about his mother’s needs. Bettina, not for the last time, feels sorry for Lore and Benno. It had been hard enough having Caoimhe around after Bláthnat was born. The older girl was always underfoot and begging for attention that she had not wanted before her younger sister was born. She is eternally grateful that the girls were not twins.

“Shhh,” Bettina offers the baby her finger to suckle on, “Your sister is quietly sleeping, what do you have against that? Hmm?”

Benno had taken Alida into the master bedroom to get her away from her brother’s wails. Then he, himself, had gone outside with the excuse of going into town for news or something or other. That had been quite some time ago. Bettina had offered to watch the little ones and do some chores so that Lore could get a much-needed nap. Ben’s crying and general fussiness had prevented her from doing any of the sweeping up that she had intended on doing.

Bettina frowns down at the baby’s shock of blonde hair that sticks straight up from his head. Ben quiets for a moment as he gnaws at his aunt’s little finger. After furious sucking produces no milk, he wails again.

Her brother’s home is comfortable and familiar. It had been their parent’s home before that. Every beam of the living room floor is intimately familiar to Bettina as she paces from one end of the room to the other. In her years away, she had missed the death of mother. Her grave was up the hillside a little ways next to their father and much of their family.

Bettina’s father had built this home after the previous one burned down due to a mishap with an oil lantern. The walls were made of stone – to prevent another fire mishap he had said – and the floors of broad pine beams. On the main floor there are five rooms; the kitchen, the living room, the lean to where they keep wood in the winter, the master bedroom, and a second bedroom. The second floor, more of a loft really, separates into two large rooms that the slanted roof makes much smaller. The rooms have the chimneys from the fireplaces running through them to help heat the spaces. That was where she and Benno has slept when they were children, those chimneys, while they were a comfort to lean against, did very little to heat the rest of the rooms in the bitter cold winters.

This is no longer her parents’ house and she no longer sleeps in the loft. That will be where Alida, Ben, and any other children will sleep. Everywhere she looks, the spaces are familiar, but the hand she sees is not her mother’s hand. She sees Lore’s hand everywhere. The blankets that are slung over the back of the couches and piled in the corner have been placed there by Lore, as have the sunflowers that are displayed in a vase by the window. As are the curtains that hand over the windows and flutter softly in the summer’s warm and humid breeze. Familiar, but different.

Bettina hums absently as another attempt to soothe the child. Ben and his sister, Alida, are almost two months old. Her time here with her brother and sister-in-law is coming to an end. She is glad. She had greatly enjoyed getting to know Benno’s wife, but she is aching to return home to her own husband and her own children. She looks forward to the comforts of their home where it is her hand that decorates. Mostly, however, she looks forward to giving Cináed his surprise that she had promised him. A smile tugs at her lips when she imagines his face when she tells him that they are expecting their third child.

She is musing over thoughts of her third child, and her hopes that this time it will be a boy when her brother bursts through the door disturbing Ben, who had just quieted. A taller, young man with hair so pale that it is almost white accompanies him.

“Hello, Reto,” she says to the white haired man before turning to her brother. “You woke him up, you take him,” she shoves the swaddled and once again crying bundle into her brother’s arms.

Benno cradles is son in one arm. “’Tina, there is news! I knew you’d have questions so I brought Reto with me!”

Reto was one of Benno’s childhood friends. While Benno had settled down to live a domestic life with his wife and sheep, Reto had been drawn to the adventure that was promised to him by the army. Reto was no longer the soft-cheeked boy that Bettina remembers, but a hardened warrior. A jagged scar runs down the side of his face, evidence of battles that he has seen.

“Would you like to sit down?” Bettina feels her mouth go dry as she speaks those words. News. If her brother feels that she will have questions then she has no illusions about the sort of news that she is going to be receiving from the warrior.

“Thank you,” Reto says, his voice much more gravelly than when they last spoke. He lowers himself onto one of the sofas. His movements are stiff and are accompanied by a limp in his left leg. “An arrow to the knee,” he says when he catches Bettina watching his rough movements. “I’m not much good in a fight anymore. They keep me around the fort or running messages on horseback. Sometimes they put me on supply trains, which I hate.

“But,” he continues, “it affords me the chance to learn information that I would otherwise not have access to. I was south in the Plains for the past few weeks and learned something that Benno thinks would be of particular interest to you.” He pauses for a moment and fixes a dark, heavy, stern gaze on her. “You may want to sit down, lass.”

Bettina swallows forcefully. Reto is not that much older than she is and it makes her distinctly uncomfortable and discomfited when he calls her ‘lass’. However, she just sits down on a chair opposite of the grizzled warrior. She does not sit back and recline on the well-stuffed cushions, rather, she perches on the edge of her seat, prepared to stand and flee at any given moment.

Reto watches Bettina as Benno paces up and down the room – ten steps, turn, and back; a pattern Bettina knows well. “Benno tells me that you have a man and bairns of your own?” He opens with a question.

Bettina’s throat is dry but she forces out the word, “Yes.”

Reto nods. “And where might home be for you? I take it that you have no intentions of staying here with your brother and his fussy ones.”

“Hey!” Benno interjects indignantly.

Reto ignores his friend; his gaze never leaves Bettina.

“Home is . . .” Bettina clears her throat and attempts to swallow before continuing. “Home is far away from here. Cináed and the girls are over the Eastern Sea.”

Reto’s heavy eyebrows drop into a deep frown. “That’s what Benno thought; he said that he was not positive.”

A heavy silence stretches between the three adults in the room. The only sound comes from the creak of a floorboard as Benno bounces his infant son. The lad’s lusty cries do not interrupt this moment that Bettina would give anything to have it broken.

“I’m afraid that this bodes ill for you.”

Bettina digs her nails further into her thigh forcing herself to remain present for this conversation. “What is it?” she grates out when Reto does not continue immediately.

“Many of the lands on our eastern coast have risen up in rebellion. They have effectively cut us off from any lands over the Eastern Sea. Our navy is trying but the sea has filled with pirates who take any ship that they can be it navy, merchant, or passenger. A good friend of mine, Afon, told me stories about the carnage that he has seen in the wake of these pirates.” He pauses, “Benno told me that you were planning on finding passage back across the sea soon, I’m afraid that all ships have been pulled from those waters unless they are part of the navy. Merchants were already pulling their ships before the orders came in. Some were making it to their destinations, but most were not.

“Soldiers are being called up from the western regions to serve in the Navy. Some from our garrison have already been called away. We will have to hope nobody comes the west as all that will be left to defend our region will be old men and cripples like myself.”

“We should all pray that this rebellion is quelled quickly,” Benno says quickly as he pats his son’s back.

Bettina tries to breathe deeply; her chest feels constricted and she cannot force her lungs to expand. “Are you sure?” she chokes out. “That there is truly no chance? Not even for a letter.”

“I’m afraid so,” Reto says gravely.

“Thank you,” she says quickly before rising and taking eight – she counts them – eight steps from the couch to the privacy of her chambers. She shuts the door softly out of habit so that the babies are not disturbed. She leans heavily against the door as she begins choking on her sobs. She can hear Benno and Reto speaking, but she cannot hear what they are saying in low voices. She groans into her fist. This could not be happening. Not now.

Bettina rests both of her hands on her abdomen. “It will be alright, little one. We’ll make it home to your father someday.” She does not add the ‘not that he even knows about you’ that she is thinking. Cináed will miss her if she never returns, but he will never know to miss his child. She silently curses herself for keeping a secret from him. However, she had wanted to make sure that the pregnancy progressed normally before she told him, rather than giving him a false alarm.

She feels so tired, as if she has spent the day laboring with the sheep or on a fishing boat. As she stands there and the adrenaline that had burned through her veins ebbs she feels like her legs are going to give out from beneath her. She makes it to her bed with heavy steps. She falls onto the straw stuffed mattress and curls around a pillow and her unborn child. She shields her child from the world as she fails to shield herself.

* * *

 

The sun rose the next morning filling Bettina’s south facing windows with sun. She still clutches the pillow close. Her face is streaked with dried tears. She groans as she rolls over to stare at the heavy beams of the ceiling. “No point staying in bed and crying about it,” she mumbles to herself. “Tears won’t change the rebellion. Tears will do nothing except steal my time from me.”

Her body aches as she stands. Every bone feels like it is fragile and will break if she places any weight upon her limbs. She pushes herself towards the door. Her body and her heart protest her movement; they would like nothing better than to spend weeks lying in her bed. Her willpower keeps her moving forward, through the quiet and empty living room and into the warm and smoky kitchen where Lore is preparing toasted bread and eggs.

“Oh, Bettina!” Lore startles. “I was not expecting to see you,” her voice drops and she looks away from her sister-in-law as she remembers exactly why she was not expecting to see Bettina.

Bettina ignores the statement. “Where are the bairns?”

“Asleep, thank the gods,” Lore gushes, glad to be steered towards a safe topic. “They both slept through the night,” she beams.

“That’s good,” Bettina says as she sits down at the large wooden dining table.

At that moment, Benno crashes through the back door that leads to the sheep paddock. “Good morning,” he booms to the room before he wraps his arms around his wife from behind and rubs his beard on her neck.

“Benno!” Lore scolds, her voice full of indignant laughter. “Wash those hands!”

The large blonde man chuckles warmly before heading over to the bucket of water that is kept in the kitchen for the purpose of washing hands before the meal.

As they begin eating, Bettina notices that neither Lore nor Benno are meeting her gaze or including her in their small talk over breakfast. When the last piece of toasted bread is gone she speaks, “I need to talk to you two about something.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” Benno interjects before his sister can continue. “We enjoy having you here and you are an enormous help with Ben and Alida.”

“Thank you, but that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Though I greatly appreciate that you will allow me to continue to stay here.” Bettina pauses and takes a breath. Lore reaches out to take her sister-in-law’s hand before she can continue speaking. “I know that that for the past months I have been helping around the house with your bairns, however, if I’m going to stay for longer, I think it would be best if I found some sort of work to help support myself.”

“That’s not necessary. I am more than capable to support my family.” Benno’s eyes flash.

“I’m not saying that you can’t support your family, brother, but,” she pauses. “Children eat a lot once they are no longer suckling, and since we do not know how long I will be here . . .” she trails off. This time nobody interjects or interrupts her train of thought. “There is something I did not tell you, nor did I tell Cináed before I left. I am expecting a child of my own –“

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Lore interrupts. She continues despite the stern look from her husband, “How far along?”

A blush rises on Bettina’s cheeks at Lore’s enthusiasm. “A little less than four months,” she answers Lore’s question. When she continues she is addressing her brother, “But that’s still not the point. I need to support my family, or at least supplement the income to ease the burden of giving you two more mouths to feed.”

“Hmm…” Benno grunts. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you or your own. When the chance to go home comes, I will take it. Nevertheless, for now, I need to stay here. I will keep helping with your children and with anything else, which needs to be done.”

“We’ll be glad to have you as long as you stay,” Lore says. She rises and wraps her arms around Bettina. Bettina returns the hug; she hugs the petite blonde woman for a few moments until a small cry comes from the other room. “That’ll be Alida,” she says with a smile. “She’ll be wanting her breakfast.”

When Lore’s skirt disappears through the doorway Bettina turns to her younger brother. “Do you know anybody that is looking for help? I’ll not be able to work for a while during the winter, but that’s when everything normally slows down anyways.”

“I know that in town there are a few fishing boats who are looking for new crew members. Quite a few of the young men around here went off to enlist in the army leaving some of the more menial jobs open for anyone else who wants them,” Benno says. “Besides during the winter when the ocean temperatures drop and the edges freeze, very few boats venture out. During the winter, at least in my home, we mostly work the sheep’s wool to sell or weave in the spring.

“Other than that I think most work that we have around here is on farms working the animals, which continues all through the winter. However, it is safer than most other jobs, definitely safer than the fishing boats. The only other thing I can think of would be at the garrison fort, washing uniforms and cooking. From what I’ve heard from Reto though, that job is best left to women past their childbearing years.

“Reto might be good people, but many who join up are not. They join to avoid jail time or other punishments. Or even if they were good when they went it, they might not be good anymore. Years of skirmishes and battles with naught but other men for company changes a lot of men who go into the army.”

“The boats might be best,” Bettina says slowly. Not only would fishing provide her with time that should would be able to spend with her child without having to disappear off to work most days of the week. It would also give her more of a chance to go home. With navigating skills and experience with boats, she might be able to convince a ship’s captain to take her on under the agreement that she work for her passage and that of her child.

“It’s more dangerous than the others,” Benno reminds her.

“Yes, but I still think that it will turn out to be best. I won’t have to worry about anyone being angry or refusing me work because I’ll be unable to work for the last few months of the pregnancy and a few months after. And if I really want for work during the winter then the garrison will always be there.”

“If you’re sure that is what you want then you can go with me into town and I can introduce you to Achim and his wife, Liesel. They’re good people and they lost quite a few hands when the army came recruiting. I’m sure they’ll be glad to have you as well as pay you decent wages.”


	6. 06 - Bettina, 743

Fifth Age, 743  
Mid-Summer  
Western Mountains, Arnagburg

**06 - Bettina**

The summer day is warm, but the cooling breeze coming off the North Sea. Bettina pauses in her work to look out over the ocean. She braces one hand on her waist and shields her eyes with her other hand so that she can see without the blinding glare of the sun on the rippling water.

“You alright, Bettina?” Achim asks as he brushes past her to grab another small barrel that is full of their catch from that day.

“I’m fine,” Bettina assures him. “Just taking a short break.”

“We’re almost done. I’m sure that Liesel will want to talk to you once we are finished up here.”

“Of course.” Bettina smiles as she tears her attention away from the water to re-board the wide, flat fishing boat. She grabs a barrel and following Achim up the shifting, floating dock.

“Those boys should be here already,” Achim grumbles after he looks around.

“Maybe they’re just late or we could be early. There’s no need to be a grump.”

“I’m not a grump,” Achim says grumpily. “Or they might just be trying to get out of their work. I won’t be paying them if they don’t get here soon to gut and clean these fish. You know,” Achim says over his shoulder, “I caught Gert sleeping on the boat last week while everyone was working. He whined like a baby when I paid him and it was only for four days rather than five.”

“I don’t blame you, but Gert was still here.” The barrel is heavy causing Bettina’s footsteps to weave as she climbs the bank clutching the barrel that stinks of fish. “If I wasn’t going to work I’d just stay home. Why come and smell of fish if you can avoid it,” Bettina says jovially.

Achim grunts in response, but he nods his head in agreement, as he drops the barrel onto the floor of the shed with a loud clattering noise. He wipes the sweat from his face onto his sleeve, leaving smeary dark streaks on the cream-colored fabric. “You go on in, get cleaned up, and talk to Liesel. I’ll get the last barrel before I go looking for those miscreants. Even if we are in sooner than normal they should still be on the lookout for our sails coming in.” Achim starts to leave, but then turns back having forgotten to say something, “Liesel can give you your pay for this week. I reckon I’ll be out here for quite a bit, I don’t want to keep you from getting home to your own family.”

“Thank you,” Bettina thanks Achim with a polite nod of her head before she heads towards the sturdy wooden home where Achim lives with his wife and their three children.

The windows and doors of the house stand open to allow some of the ocean breeze inside. Bettina can hear the shouting of children through the open windows. She enters the home to find Liesel sitting by one of the windows that faces the sea mending a child’s shirt.

Liesel looks up when she hears the sound of boots on the wooden floors. “Bettina,” she smiles. “Please sit. It has been a while.”

Bettina laughs. “If you call only a few days a long time.”

“Well, no,” Liesel concedes, “but it has been quite a while since we had a proper talk.”

“I think the last one was during the winter.”

“That it was. You should bring Áedbran down with you on one of your days off. The children can play together and you can I can talk with neither of us having to rush of to tend to the bairns because they will all be right here with us.”

“I’ll see if I can work that out for this weekend or the next,” Bettina promises. “I usually try to help Benno with the farm work when I’m not working for your husband.”

“Bah,” Liesel snorts. “My husband should give you some days off. You have been working for him for four years now. You’ve only taken time when no one else is working. You need a break. I’m sure I can persuade him to let you have a few days off and you two can stay here with us.”

“Achim’s short-handed on the boat as it is and the village boys are often late for their part of the job which leaves us working much later than we should be.”

Liesel rolls her eyes as she continues mending the large rip in the children’s shirt. “He is _always_ short of help. He’d hire the entire village and still say that he needed more workers.”

The two women laugh together. Bettina stands up and wipes her hands on her brown skirt. “I’ll try to get down here with Áedbran soon, but for now I’d like to be getting home to the little guy and Achim said that you could pay me.”

“Oh, yes! I’d forgotten that he had mentioned that,” Liesel gasps, drops the mending back into the mending basket, and bustles over the fireplace. She wedges her fingers around a brick and pulls it away revealing a small hidden compartment where Achim keeps the family’s money.

Bettina turns her back. “You know, you shouldn’t let me see where you keep the money.”

Liesel snorts derisively. “You’re practically family at this point.”

“Whatever you say,” Bettina says with a smile. “I still don’t think Achim would be too happy about other people knowing where it is.”

Liesel shrugs as she counts out Bettina’s pay. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him in this case.”

As Liesel presses the coins into Bettina’s hands she says, “My stingy husband should have given you a raise by this point. You could move out of your brother’s home.”

Bettina shrugs. “Even if he did give me a raise I would stay with Benno and Lore. I don’t need any more anyway. This amount suits me perfectly.”

“But you could rent a set of rooms in town,” Liesel protests. “Your son would be able to attend school and play with the other children.”

“He’s still very young. For now, he has his cousins. Maybe in a few years, when he is older, I’ll consider moving. Until then, I will stay where I am.”

“If that’s what you really want,” Liesel says skeptically. She shakes her head. “Get on home to your little one. I’m sure he’s missing you.”

“Thank you, Liesel.”

The two women exchange a hug before Liesel returns to her sewing and Bettina leaves to start the walk up the mountain to her brother’s farm.

* * *

 

The walk up the mountain takes nearly an hour, but it is not a hard walk. When Bettina first returned the gentle grade would leave her winded after only a few minutes of climbing. She had grown far too accustomed to the flat lands that surround Cináed’s estate. Now, after climbing the path almost every day for the past four years, she enjoys the easy walk after the long days on the boat.

White stones and dirt wagon tracks clearly mark the path. Tall bunchgrass, topped with purple, grows down the center of the path and along the sides amidst the tall pines. The grasses rustle in the breeze that has been coming off the sea for almost a week. The sky beyond the tops of the pines is a clear and watered down blue.

Benno’s home is back against a cliff. He had cleared the trees in a large radius around the home, garden, shed, and barn. The sheep kept the grass in the yard short. There is a wide dirt track the leads away from the house and runs along the base of cliff. It leads to the pastures where the sheep are kept during the summer months when the barn is empty and cleaned out.

When Bettina climbs the path the leads up from the road she sees Lore hanging the washing out on ropes that string between trees along the edge of the clearing to the house. Lore’s youngest child, Luca, is strapped to her back while Alida, Ben, and Áedbran play among the cropped grass. Alida and Ben play a game of tag, each of them occasionally stumbling over the bunched grass and tumbling head over heels. Áedbran sits a bit removed from his cousins. He sits in the shade cast by the eaves of the house. Wooden toys that he had received for his birthday just after the New Year began surround him on the ground.

“Auntie!” Ben shouts when he sees Bettina emerge from the shade of the pines. Ben bounds towards his aunt, but trips over his feet sending up a puff of dust. He is on his feet in moments and running again, but this time he is chasing after his sister.

Lore turns when she hears her son’s shout. “You’re back early.”

“The catch was good,” Bettina says as she approaches Lore. She pulls out the purse that she keeps under the waist of her skirt. “I have the rent.”

Lore turns, her blonde hair has frizzed out in a halo around her. “You know this is completely unnecessary. We don’t need the money. You should keep it. Once the shipping lanes return to normal I’m sure that you’ll need money to pay for your passage and your son’s passage back to your home.”

Bettina frowns. “We don’t need to go through this every week, Lore. We eat your food, we live in your home, and we wear clothes made from the wool of your sheep. This is the least I can do. Plus, I do not work when the edges of the ocean are frozen and we cannot get the boats out. This is to make up for those months of not earning money as well.”

Lore frowns as well. “Fine. But, we’re still putting it aside for you and Áedbran.”

“I don’t care what you do with it as long as it is yours,” Bettina says. She changes the subject, “Where’s Benno?”

“He’s up in the high pasture bring the herd down to one of the lower pastures. He wants to take Ben and Áedbran out with him tomorrow and neither of the boys can climb into the high fells.”

Bettina nods.

“He will be back in time for supper though.”

“Alright,” Bettina replies. “Do you need any help here?”

“I’ve got this all under control. However, I think Áedbran could use some help. He’s been quiet all day.” Lore nods in the direction of Áedbran.

Bettina nods and walks over to join her son in the shade of the house. Áedbran’s dark hair falls loose around his face that is still baby round and chubby. Bettina gently runs her fingers through her son’s dark, soft hair. Áedbran ignores her touches and continues playing. He moves the wooden figures around on the dirt and grass, and into and out of their wooden homes. 

“What are you playing?” Bettina asks after watching him play for several minutes.

Áedbran shrugs. “Just playing,” he says quietly.

“Who are these?” Bettina touches the two figures that he holds in his fists.

Áedbran’s only answer is another shrug.

“What are they doing? Are they looking for something?” Bettina continues to ask despite Áedbran’s reluctance to talk.

“They’re looking for a bad man,” Áedbran says sullenly.

“What sort of bad man? What did he do?” Bettina straightens her skirts.

Áedbran whispers, “He hurt people?”

“Oh?” Bettina looks at her son. “What did he do to hurt people? Did he take their sheep or steal their money?

Áedbran shakes his head.

“What did this bad man do?”

Áedbran frowns. “The bad man hurt their bodies.”

“Hmm,” Bettina hums in response. “Why don’t you bring in the soldiers?”

Bettina picks one of the wooden soldiers out of the box that holds all of the toys. She offers it to Áedbran, but he simply frowns at Bettina and keeps playing. Bettina walks the toy soldier into the scene. Áedbran shoves her hand away.

“No!” Áedbran snaps. “I don’t like the soldiers! They don’t get anything right!”

“What do you mean ‘they don’t get anything right’?” Bettina inquires.

“They never do anything good,” Áedbran pouts.

“Why?” Bettina presses.

“They do a lot of the bad things.”

“Like what?”

“They just do. I do not like them. These two,” Áedbran holds up the two figures that he is still holding tightly in his fists, “will fix any problems even if the soldiers are the ones who made the problem.”

“Come here,” Bettina drags Áedbran’s small body into her lap. She gently plucks the toys from his hands and put them into the box. “What’s wrong, ‘Bran? Your aunt says that you’ve been quiet all day. Did Ben say something?”

Áedbran shakes his head.

“No, you haven’t been quiet? No, Ben didn’t say something? No, what?”

“Ben is always mean to me,” Áedbran grumbles.

“Is that what is bothering you?”

Áedbran shakes his head again.

Bettina groans. “What is the matter then?”

Áedbran twists in Bettina’s lap so that he can look up into her face. He stares up into her face with his violet eyes, eyes the color of the tops of the bunch grass, for several long moments. “I had a bad dream last night?”

Bettina wraps her arms around Áedbran’s small and soft body. “What was your dream about?” she asks soothingly.

“Soldiers.”

“What did the soldiers do?”

“They hurt people.”

“Was there a reason that they were hurting people?”

Áedbran shrugs. “I don’t know. They were just hurting people. I thought soldiers were supposed to protect us.”

“They are and they do,” Bettina assures Áedbran. “You know that it was just a dream, right? Dreams aren’t real.”

“I know that it wasn’t real,” Áedbran mumbles.

“Reto is a solider, remember? Do you think that he would ever hurt you or your cousins?”

“No,” Áedbran says. “But Reto is different. He’s not just a solider, he’s a friend.”

“That’s right. Many soldiers are friends with people like us, people who aren’t soldiers. But, just because we are not soldiers does not mean that they will hurt us ever. They might hurt the bad guys, but that is only because the bad guys would hurt all of us if they didn’t do something.”

“I know that,” Áedbran says petulantly. “I know Ret’ and the other soldiers won’t hurt us. But the soldiers in my dream, they were different?”

“Different how?”

“Just different,” Áedbran shrugs. “Can I go back to playing?”

“Sure, dear,” Bettina says even though Áedbran was not waiting for her answer, he was already scrambling off her lap to chase after he cousins.

“Different soldiers,” Bettina mumbles to herself. She rises to her feet shaking her head and dusting off her skirt. “Silly boy and his dreams,” she says fondly to herself as she watches he run after Ben and tackle the older boy to the ground.

* * *

 

“Mama?” a small voice asks as cold toes press against her side. “Mama?”

“’Bran, go back to sleep, it’s too early for this,” she mumbles to her young son.

“But, Mama,” he protests.

“Shhh…” she hushes him and pulls him close to her chest.

“But I can’t sleep,” he protests while squirming to escape his mother’s grasp.

“Can you at least try to sleep more?” Bettina opens her eyes a little bit to see that the room is still dark. There is no early dawn light coming in through the windows.

“I’ve tried,” he says petulantly.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Bettina groans. She really wanted to sleep more. Benno and Lore’s youngest, Luca, had been up most of the night with an ear infection. She had tried to ignore his cries, but his cries were persistent and she had been unable to sleep. “Alright then. Up,” she orders.

The edge of the mattress dips as the boy worms his way out of the bed. His feet make soft slapping noises as he runs across the room and back. “Here, Mama.” He presses flint, steel, and the candle into her hands.

Bettina takes the items from her son’s chubby fists. She quickly lights the candle, which illuminates her son’s round face. A smile tugs at her lips when she sees his toothy smile. He looks so much like his father that it makes her happy and her heart hurt with sadness at the same time. His eyes are violet, but everything else about him resembles his father’s people. His curly, dark brown hair frames a face that, beneath the roundness of youth, carries the sharp planes of his father. His skin, at its fairest, is darker than any of the mountain people’s hair.

“Áedbran,” she says cradling his round cheek in her hand.

“Mama,” he says brightly. “Can we have breakfast now?”

“Silly boy, it’s still dark out.” Bettina scoops the little boy back into bed with her after placing the lit candle on the table next to her bed. Áedbran’s bed is in the corner, but he rarely sleeps in it all through the night. More often than not, he ends up in bed with his mother never failing to wake her with his cold fingers or toes.

“But –”

“But, nothing,” Bettina says firmly. “Is there anything else that you want to do since you insisted on getting up?”

“Story?”

“What sort of story?”

“One about my daddy.”

Bettina suppresses her urge to flinch away. Ever since the rebellion started, she had avoided talking about Cináed to everybody even her son. It has been nearly four years since the rebellion began and while life in the west was mostly unaffected there was still no way to travel across the Eastern Sea. The rebellion shows no signs of ending anytime soon, it just keep stretching on. She figured that with things as they are it might just be easier to grieve and accept the fate that chance had thrust upon her and her son. It might be easier if she would remarry and start a life here. While that discussion had come up with her brother, it was still utterly repulsive to Bettina even if it would be the more practical choice than living with her brother and his wife for the rest of her life.

“Do you want one about your sisters too, or just him?”

“I want him to be the hero!”

“Alright then,” Bettina settles back against the pillows pulling her small son with her. “I think I have one for you.” Cináed, her husband, the hero, there are so many times where he was a hero to her. However, for her son, she decides upon the story where she met him. He had been guarding the diplomatic caravan that she was a member of at the time. They had been ambushed on the plains while they were working their way south. She had insisted that she could hold her own with a sword. The Griffins accepted that until she almost took Cináed’s head off. A single moment that put them both at risk until he fixed it. Moreover, it happened to be one of Áedbran’s favorite stories about his father, he had heard it nearly every week of his life.

Later, when she finishes telling the story, Áedbran curls against her chest. The small boy is almost asleep again until she jostles him. “Hey, there.”

“Hey,” he mumbles and rolls over to bury his face in a pillow.

“Áedbran.” Bettina nudges him. “Now it is time to get up.”

“No,” Áedbran moans theatrically into the pillow.

“Yes,” she says as she reaches down to tickle the bottoms of his bare feet.

Áedbran groans.

“Alright, sleepyhead,” she says. She rises from her bed and pulls her skirt on over her long shirt.

Once she laces her boots up, she moves back to the bed. “Áedbran.”

No response.

“’Bran, I want you to be a good boy for your Auntie Lore. Don’t pick on Ben. I’ll see you tonight when I’m don’t with work.” Bettina presses a kiss to her son’s dark curly hair. “I love you.”

Áedbran turns his head to expose half of his face. “Love you, Mama,” he says before turning to bury his face in the pillow once more.

Bettina smiles at him before leaving her room and the house. Outside the sky is just being lit by the beginnings of the sunrise. Once the sun is fully in the sky, she will be on a boat helping to cast nets and haul them back in. Benno had been right this was a hard job. However, it afforded her many months off in the winter that she could spend with her child and educate him.

Almost four years since the rebellion, and three and a half years since Áedbran’s birth. Three and a half years that Áedbran was alive where Cináed had knowledge of his firstborn son. Bettina remembers Áedbran’s birth. It had been hard. Harder than Caoimhe and Bláthnat’s births. But, maybe, she thinks, those two were easier because she knew Cináed was waiting for her, because she could not wait to see the look on her husband’s face. He was standing beside her the entire time, but this time, it had been different and harder.


	7. 07 - Benno, 743

Fifth Age, 743  
Mid-Summer  
Western Mountains, Arnagburg

**07 - Benno**

“Aedbran, it’s time to get up,” Benno says loudly as he sticks his head through the half-open door.

Áedbran is sitting in the center of his mother’s bed with his stockinged feet hanging over the edge. His dark hair stands up in all directions, but it is flat on one side courtesy of his pillow. His wide violet eyes are only half-open and his eyelids are heavy with sleep. He sways where he sits as his eyes threaten to close all the way.

“You might also want to ask Lore if she’ll help you brush your hair. The sheep might run off if they see you like that,” Benno teases his nephew as he fully enters the room.

Áedbran does not say anything, but he reaches up with his hands to feel his hair. Wherever his hands go, they flatten the unruly dark curls to his head, but as soon as his hands are past, the curls spring right back up again. “It feels alright,” Áedbran says slowly.

“Trust me, ‘Bran. You’ll want Lore to brush it for you,” Benno says with a smile. “Do you need help?” Benno gestures to Áedbran’s partially dressed state.

Áedbran shakes his head, “No. I can do it.”

“Better hop to it then. Ben might eat all of the porridge if you take too long. You’ll want some breakfast before we head out for the pastures.”

Áedbran nods his head vigorously and hops down from the large bed.

Benno leaves the room to give Áedbran some privacy. “He’s coming,” he assures Lore when she looks at him questioningly. “He was half-asleep on the bed. He’s getting dressed now,” Benno explains further.

Lore nods and without turning to look into the kitchen where Ben and Alida are eating their breakfast, “Ben, don’t you dare take any more of that porridge!”

Benno, who can see directly into the kitchen, sees his eldest son – who is leaning all the way across the wooden table – drop the spoon back into the porridge with a scowl on his face. When Ben sees his father watching him he sticks out his tongue. Benno shakes his head; his wife’s uncanny ability to know what her children are doing never ceases to amaze him. As Bettina has the same ability, he chops it up to them being mothers.

Áedbran son follows Benno into the great room. His bare feet make soft patting sounds as he rushes into the kitchen to get his share of the porridge.

Lore watches him run past her, rustling her skirt.

“What’s your plan for the day?”

“Just the lowest pasture. I’m going to have them help me find and count the new lambs.”

“Are you sure you can handle both of them on your own?”

“They’re just two little boys,” Benno scoffs. “How much trouble can they be?”

Lore smiles. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Those two . . .” she trails off shaking her head.

“I’m sure you’re just teasing me,” Benno says in a low teasing voice as he moves in to give Lore a gentle kiss. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. And if not . . . I’ll take some rope with me.” He smirks with his last words.

“Don’t you dare tie up our son, Benno Benson!” Lore half-shouts. She smacks Benno playfully on the arm.

Benno grabs her arms and pulls her into a tight, quick hug. “I won’t tie them up,” he chuckles into her ear. “But . . . I might make them walk back if they’re misbehave too much.”

* * *

 

A sturdy pony pulls the cart that carries Ben and Áedbran along with various supplies that may be required during the day. There are multiple skins of water, old barn blankets, and supplies in case any of the sheep or lambs have been injured since Benno was last in this pasture.

A crude fence encloses the pasture that is dotted with dirty white sheep and the smaller lambs, who are always close by one of the older sheep. The clearing is also dotted with tree stumps that are slowly rotting away and have been since Benno’s grandfather cleared these pastures when he was a boy alongside his own father.

As the cart comes to a stop both boys leap over the low sides and run off to inspect the sheep. Benno watches them for a moment, noting that the sheep will need moved soon. They grass is becoming quite short and the ground bare here.

“Boys!” Benno shouts when he sees that both boys have run quite a distance from the wagon already.

Áedbran pauses and looks back at Benno. He looks at Ben’s retreated back and then back to Benno. Deciding his course of action, he starts to trot back to his uncle’s side. Ben, soon realizing that Áedbran is no longer following him, turns back to look at his father and his cousin.

Benno gestures for his son to come back. He watches as the boy looks indecisive for a moment before looking back to see the frown that has appeared on his father’s face. Deciding that it is clearly in his best interest to turn around he does so. However, to convey his reluctance, he trudges back screwing his face up into a displeased scowl.

Benno rolls his eyes and turns away from his petulant son. “We’ve got work to do before you two can play,” Benno says addressing Áedbran.

Áedbran nods his head, his dark curls bouncing.

Once Ben stands beside Áedbran Benno starts to issue their instructions. “I need you two to count the lambs.”

“But what if we each count the same one?” Áedbran asks.

“You’re each going to count _all_ of the lambs that you see. If you come up with different numbers, you will just have to count them again. If any of them seem hurt or sick try to remember so I can take a closer look at them.”

Áedbran nods, but Ben just continues scowling and looking away.

“Do you understand, Ben?” Benno asks his son.

“But I’m older than him,” Ben frowns. “Can’t I do a job that isn’t meant for babies?”

Áedbran’s face falls at his cousin’s words.

“Ben,” Benno says sternly. “This _is_ an important job. I need to know how many lambs were born. Moreover, if any of them are ill or injured I need to look at them so I can make them better or put them out of their misery if the injury is bad.”

Ben continues to scowl, but he does not his head reluctantly.

“Alright, now hop to it!” Benno shoos the boys off to start their work.

Once the boys appear to have started their work, Benno turns to his task. He needs to check on the mature sheep and see how many have been lost. There has been a problem with coyotes lately taking some of his flock. Benno pulls a ledger from a sack along with a crudely sharpened pencil so that he can take notes one this flock.

As Benno goes about his work, he can hear the boys bickering. It is not a good-natured bickering, but it is not escalating so Benno does not focus any of his attention on the words in nasty tones that shoot back and forth between the boys. On the other hand, if he is honest with himself, words that are spoken by his son, words that Áedbran often meets with complete silence or a quiet response that Benno cannot fully understand.

The lack of response Ben’s word elicit seem to incite the older boy. His taunts get louder and Áedbran’s responses become quieter.

Benno sighs to himself. “Are you boys almost done?” he shouts over his shoulder.

A long silence stretches out before a response comes. “No, Da,” Ben says, barely loud enough for his father to hear.

“Then why are you talking? You should be working,” Benno turns from the elderly ewe that he was expecting. “I highly doubt that you can keep count when you are talking so much,” Benno continues sharply.

Ben frowns and nods. He turns his back and returns to his task, but Benno can hear grumbling.

Benno rolls his eyes. As long as the work is carried out and there is a semblance of politeness between the two boys, he will be happy. He does not care if Ben mutters and curses under his breath as long as it stays under his breath and private.

The trio works in silence for about a quarter of an hour before a shout interrupts Benno’s search for the ram. He groans as he walks back to where the two boys are currently counting lambs. When he comes over the ridge and sees the pair, he sees a smug grin on Ben’s face and Áedbran franticly wiping a dark smear from his shirt.

Benno approaches Áedbran. “What is it?”

“Sheep poop,” Áedbran almost whispers through the tears that are brimming in his eyes.

“How did it get there?”

Áedbran casts a glance in Ben’s direction before looking at his feet. “I slipped on the grass.”

“Hmm,” Benno grunts. “Come back to the wagon. Water will help clean that off better than your hands. I think rubbing at it is just making it worse actually.” Before Benno leads Áedbran back to the cart, he looks over at his son and scowls. Ben flinches away and looks down at his feet, clearly intimidated by his father’s furious gaze.

As Benno helps Áedbran clean off his shirt he asks, “Have you seen any sick or injured lambs?”

“Maybe one,” Áedbran mumbles as he focuses on cleaning off his shirt. He pauses from his task to point, “I think it was over there.”

“Would you might getting it for me? I would like to take a look?” Benno asks when Áedbran’s shirt is as clean as it will get with just some water and firm scrubbing with fingers.

When Áedbran walks off in the direction that he had indicated, Benno turns to face his son. “Why are you being a brat?” Benno asks his son along with a cuff on the back of Ben’s head.

Ben scowls, but does not answer.

“Why are you being so nasty to him?”

Ben digs his bare feet into the dirt and grass. “He had more porridge than me, but I’m bigger,” Ben grumbles.

Benno’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s what is causing this?”

“Yes,” Ben mumbles under his breath.

Benno straightens up rolling his eyes. He exhales an exasperated breath. “Maybe I should have listened to Lore,” he mutters beneath his breath. He says louder, “I want you to apologize.”

“I don’t wanna,” Ben grumbles.

“But you will. Or you’ll be going straight to bed when we get home with no dinner and no bedtime story.”

Ben scowls up at his father defiantly. However, the defiance leeched away and Ben nodded his head, his blonde head bobbing.

At this moment, that Áedbran returns to them. In his arms, he has a small brown and white lamb. Benno raises his eyebrows at his son, prompting to apologize nonverbally.

“I’m sorry I was mean,” Ben says, but he refuses to look at Áedbran’s face.

“Alright,” Áedbran replies with a small smile. “Look at Emil!” he says, holding out the lamb.

“Is this the one you said was hurt?” Benno asks before Ben can reach out and take hold of the small creature.

Áedbran nods. “His leg looks funny,” he says with frown.

“Let me see.” Benno scoops the small lamb from Áedbran’s arms.

The lamb bleats plaintively as Benno removes him from Áedbran’s gentle hold. “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Benno hushes the lamb. “You’ll be alright; I just want to take a look at you.”

Benno carries the lamb over the cart with Áedbran quick on his heels and Ben following more reluctantly at a great distance. He sets the animal down on the flat bed and quickly begins checking the lamb’s limbs. He finds a partially scabbed over scrap that is deep enough for him to treat with something more than a quick washing. The cart shakes – upsetting the lamb – when Áedbran crawls up to sit by the lambs head.

“It’s okay, Emil,” Áedbran says stroking the lamb softly between the ears.

A smile pulls on Benno’s lips. “’Emil’ is actually a girl,” Benno says. “Maybe Emma would be more appropriate for the little lady.”

“But,” Áedbran protests. “I like Emil. She still looks like an Emil even if she is a girl.”

Benno shakes his head. “Can you help me hold Emil then?”

“Yep!” Áedbran wraps his arms tightly around the lamb.

Áedbran hold the lamb so tightly that Benno worries for a moment that Áedbran’s grip on the lamb is too tight. However, when the lamb does not struggle to get away, Benno places his own hand on the lamb’s torso. He quickly pours the water over the wound and rubs it as gently as he can with a rag while still cleaning it. At this the lamb starts and tries to pull away, but between Benno and Áedbran she is unable to move.

“Good,” Benno congratulates Áedbran.

Now that Benno can see the wound, better he frowns. “She’ll have to come back with us. I’ll want to watch her for a bit with this.”

“What about her family?”

“I’ll bring her back once she is all better. If she stays out here, she might be lost or left behind. Back at the house with us we can watch her and she won’t get forgotten.”

Áedbran rubs the lamb’s short wiry coat as he speaks to her, “You’re going to come home with us. Uncle will make you all better.” Áedbran finishes with smile.

Benno steps back and looks around the dingy green pasture. The green pines stand out starkly against a sky that is no longer clear and blue. Dark clouds roll in, their peaks rising far into the sky. Flashes of lightening are visible within the darkness. The sharp smell of the coming storm is growing ever more present on the breeze, which is coming faster and cooler than it was only a few moments ago.

“Did you two finish counting all the lambs?” Benno changes the subjects and addresses both of the boys.

“Yes,” Áedbran and Ben chorus.

“Good. We need to be heading back now if we’re going to get home before the storm.”

Benno quickly loads up his son, his nephew, and Emil the lamb before security the supplies and equipment that they had brought with them. He quickly tugs the mountain pony along as he looks over his shoulder at the quickly approaching storm that is promising to be a bad one.

* * *

 

“Áedbran, you need to come in and wash up for supper,” Benno tells the little boy.

“But, Mama isn’t back yet.” Áedbran’s dark head does not turn to face his uncle, nor does he move from his perch on the front porch’s railing.

“She’ll be back soon,” Benno assures his nephew.

“It’s raining.”

“That it is,” he agrees. “Inside. Supper. Now.”

Without speaking Áedbran hops down and disappears into the house. Benno watches his nephews back before turning and looking back out into the rain.

The storm had rolled across the land with no warning. Benno worries for his sister. Storms like this often capsize boats and leave their crews lost in the oceans. Storms that appear unexpectedly with strong winds and pelting rains. When he was bringing the sheep in he had seen some of the pine trees on the mountain snapping in half in the winds. He can only hope that the storm is moving over the land rather than going out into the bay.

When he was much younger, he had lost friends to storms like this. He had continued to lose friend until he learned better than to be friends with fishermen. Achim and Liesel were the only ones left, but they had been plying their trade for over a decade without any loses. If a day even felt like there would be a storm, they did not send their boats out. Others would rub it in Achim’s face when they came back with large catches on a day when Achim’s boats had stayed at the dock. Achim said that the fact that he never had to increase wages to get people to work for him or pay a new boat after one had gone down more than offset the money he lost from not going out on days that proved to be fair.

Benno watches the failing rain for several more moments before heading inside for supper as well. Áedbran sits quietly through supper, but he hardly touches his food. Before Benno can say anything his eldest son, Ben, snatches the barely touched plate from under Áedbran’s nose and starts eating.

Benno and Lore wait for the inevitable fight, but the fight never comes. Áedbran does not shout out or tackle his older cousin. Ben seems equally surprised. He stares at the younger boy with wide eyes before he continues eating. After Ben and Alida, leave the dinner table to play with their toys Áedbran remains.

“Are you okay, dear?” Lore asks, ruffling the boy’s curls as she clears the dishes away from the table.

“My mother’s not back,” he says quietly.

Lore looks are her husband. She raises her eyebrows and jerks her head in Áedbran’s direction. ‘Say something,’ she mouths at him.

“Hey, ‘Bran.”

Áedbran looks up at his uncle.

“You saw how hard it was raining out there. We could not even see the sheep barn. If it is raining that hard in town, your mother probably stayed with Liesel and Achim. You know that they would be more than happy to have her overnight. She will surely be home tomorrow for dinner,” Benno says calmly.

“She promised that she would be back tonight though,” Áedbran protests.

“Sometimes things don’t always go as you plan. Remember when I promised you that you could come with me to the sheep pastures. But we couldn’t go because I was sick, but then we went a few days later.”

“I remember,” Áedbran says petulantly.

“I’m sure that everything will be fine,” Benno looks at his wife to confirm that this was everything that she wanted addressed. When she nods, he continues, “Now why don’t you go play with Alida and Ben.”

After the boy disappears into the living room, Lore pulls the kitchen door closed. “You know that this isn’t good, right?”

“Yes, I know,” Benno snaps. “What else am I supposed to tell the boy? He is no bigger than our bairns are. Am I supposed to tell him that his mother is gone and that we’ll never even be able to bury her? That the sea has claimed another boat? We don’t even know that for sure!”

“You know that chances,” Lore snaps back.

“Yes, I know,” Benno says again. “It can wait until tomorrow at the very least. It could just be the rain. She might be staying with Achim or one of the other crewmembers and we’ll see her walking up that trailing carrying a string of fish before sunset tomorrow.”

“Or not,” Lore finishes the conversation.

Benno places his head in his hands as his wife tidies the kitchen around him. His fingers dig into his temples as he listens to the rain falling on the wooden roof and the walls of stone that make up the sturdy farmhouse. “She’ll be okay,” he whispers to himself.

* * *

 

An evening came and went and a second was fast approaching since Bettina failed to come home from work. Benno is running out of stories to tell his nephew. Lore keeps giving him scalding looks when he fails to have a conversation with his nephew. She gave him one only a few minutes ago when she passed through the porch where Benno has his feet up, resting his legs and massaging his thigh where he had been wounded during his two-year stint in the army. Áedbran was sitting on the railing only a few feet away. A place that had become his perch and he rarely left it over the past few days.

“Uncle Benno! Look!” Áedbran shouts as he launches himself from the railing and runs down the path.

A wave of relief washes through Benno as he stands and sees a figure ascending the trail. That relief is gone when he notices that the figure is far too broad and the gait is too shambling for it to be his missing sister. He sees Áedbran’s small figure freeze in the middle of the path when he realizes the same thing.

Benno strides down to meet the man coming up the path. “Reto?” he says in surprise when he recognizes the figure.

“Benno,” the soldier greets his friend. Reto grabs Benno’s shoulder. “We need to talk,” he says seriously, “inside. And alone,” he adds when he sees Áedbran staring up at him with his violet eyes.

The two men quickly outpace the little boy as they stride towards the house. “Is this about my sister?” Benno probes the soldier.

Reto does not respond except to say, ‘Once we’re inside and alone.’

“Benno, can you –” Lore starts to say before she stops mid-question in surprise at the sight of Reto. “Reto, what are you –” she starts to ask as the two men disappear into the kitchen and Reto slams the door.

Once the door is shut, Benno pulls his arm out of Reto’s grasp. “What is it? Something to do with the rebellion?”

“No,” Reto grunts. “It has nothing to do with the rebellion.” Reto drops heavily into one of the dining table chairs.

“It has to do with the storm that we had a couple days ago.”

Benno pulls out a chair across from his friend and sits down. “Yeah, I know the storm that you’re talking about.”

“We run patrols up and down the coast after a storm like that. Mostly to check on communities and make sure that they are okay and to look for anyone who went missing. Our people had several boats disappear so we were keeping our eyes out for any wrecks or survivors from the boats.”

Benno tugs at his clothes nervously. “Can you just get to the point, Ret’? You know my sister was on one of those boats, just get to the point.”

“I am.” Reto adjusts his position before continuing. “We found quite a few wrecks, more than just those from our community. We had to bury the dead that we found, but we took trinkets from each person to aid in identifying the dead and notifying their families. One trinket was familiar to me even though none of the bodies bore any resemblance to anyone that I knew. I brought that trinket with me.” Reto digs around in his pockets before pulling the item out and dropping it onto the worn tabletop.

Benno snatches the item before it can stop spinning on the table. It is a ring. A simple iron band with intricate line work. The iron is cool against his fingers. The interior of the band is worn and the initials that were carved there are all but gone _CP & BG. _The ring is as familiar to Benno as the much simpler one that he wears on his own hand. “It’s Bettina’s,” he whispers. He almost chokes on his words.

“I thought so,” Reto says quietly. “She is buried on the beach somewhere south of here. I’m afraid that there are no markers, we get so many that it isn’t prudent to mark them.”

“I understand,” Benno replies. “Thank you for making the trip.”

“I couldn’t let anyone else make it since I was pretty sure that it was your sister’s ring.”

“I appreciate it.”

Reto rises. “I should be going. I have watch tonight and I’ll be lucky to make it back as it is. I just know that if it was anyone in my family I would want to know as soon as possible.”

“Are you sure? You could stay for supper, I owe you for bringing this to us,” Benno says as Reto rises to his feet. He is willing the tears to stay away. He will deal with his grief later, for now other things are more important, including telling Bettina’s son the news.

“I really must be going,” Reto repeats before striding towards the door and starts down the path.

Benno sits in the kitchen for several long moments before he stands and enters the living room.

“Benno?”

“Where’s Áedbran?” Benno asks, ignoring his wife’s question.

“He ran upstairs after you and Ret’ went into the kitchen. Why? Benno what happened?”

Benno swallows. Right now, he can only tell this once. In response, he lightly tosses Bettina’s ring to his sister.

Lore catches the ring. “Oh, Benno,” she says sadly after she had a chance to look at the ring. She moves to hug her husband but he brushes her off as he moves towards the stairs that lead to the loft.

“I have to tell Áedbran. Sooner is better than later.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, I’ve got this,” Benno says as he pulls away and starts climbing the stairs.

“Áedbran?” he calls out into the dark loft. “Áedbran?”

There is no response, but Benno sees movement one of the far corners of the room.

“Áedbran,” he says gently as he gets closer to the child who is sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest. “It’s just me,” he assures his nephew when the boy flinches away in the darkness. “It’s just me, I promise.” He sits down on the floor in front of the dark-haired boy. “I’ve got something that I need to talk to you about.”

“It’s about my mama,” the child whimpers into his sleeves.

“Yes, it’s about your mother,” Benno says quietly.

“You lied,” Áedbran accuses through his tears.

“I never lied to you,” Benno assures. “I was hoping for the best.”

There is no response this time, except for the boy’s tears.

“Áedbran –” Benno starts.

“She’s not coming back, is she?” Áedbran interrupts.

“I’m afraid not. Reto said that they buried her on the beach, but there is no marker.”

“She always did like the beach and the ocean,” he said quietly through the tears. His young voice trembles and shakes. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’re going to stay here, with us. We’re family,” Benno says firmly to comfort his nephew.


	8. 08 - Cináed, 743

Fifth Age, 743  
Mid-Summer  
Northeastern Lands, Blackrock

**08 - Cin** **áed**

The bright light of a candle near his face jerks Cináed from his sleep. “Go away,” he grumbles as he tries to yank his blankets back over his head. It has been a particularly cold summer here in the northeast. The cold winds off the ocean have not made it any better. His bed has been particular cold since his wife left never to return.  At first, he had tried to be understanding, but at time passed, he began to feel bitter. He knew about the rebellion, but ships that went out from their harbors always made it back. He cannot help but wonder why Bettina had not returned. Four years and there had been no news at all. The rational part of him says that something must have happened while the other part said that she had run away, never to return.

“My lord,” a servant said insistently tugging at the blanket.

“Go away,” Cináed snarls as he opens his eyes.

“Please, my lord,” the servant begs. Now that Cináed has his eyes open, he sees that the maid’s eyes are wide with fear and filled with tears.

“Bridie,” Cináed addresses the girl as he rolls into a seated position. “What’s wrong?”

“You must come, my lord,” she says as she tugs on his shirtsleeve. “You must!”

Cináed rises and follows Bridie at her insistent tugging. “But I need to know what the matter is if I’m going to be of any help.” He grabs his tartan and throws it around his shoulders before allowing her to pull him any further.

“It’s Cian,” she says still tugging and practically dragging the master of the manor down the dark and damp hallways.

“Where is he?” Cináed snaps, all of his attention focused on the dark-haired girl that is dragging him through the dark.

“He was in the kitchen. Brand was stationed there and he fetched me so that he could remain with Lord Cian,” Bridie explains.

Cináed tugs his hand free from the girl’s small hand and sets off at a run down the hallway. This could either bad or neither, but there was no way that this sort of awakening would end in anything good. Most dreams came as part of a _mriyati_ , however, some would come as they will. They would come during the night while Cian was sleeping or sometimes even while he was awake. The dreams that came on their own never boded well. Cináed had hoped and prayed for such dreams after Bettina’s disappearance. Nothing ever came though not even during a _mriyati_.

During an unexpected dream Cian would go to the kitchen because of the large fire that was kept burning through the night by servants whose shifts rotated. The magic was aided and soothed by fire simultaneously and Cian was always drawn to them. The fire started being kept a live at night soon after Cian left the monastery and came home. It was one of the few things that their parents could do that would make Cian’s suffering easier.

Cináed shoves open the kitchen door so hard that it bounces off the wall and the noise reverberates through the large arched ceiling. “Cian!” Brand, the boy in charge of watching the fire tonight, stands pressed against the wall his eyes are wide with fear. He does not look in Cináed’s direction when the door flies open. His eyes are fixed on the naked figure that is sprawled in the middle of the floor on the large kitchen flagstones.

“Cian,” Cináed says softly as he yanks the tartan from his shoulders and lays it over his brother’s prone body. “Cian, Cain, why can you never wear even a shirt to bed?” he asks the unconscious form. “You know that this sort of thing happens.”

Cináed turns his attention to the boy who has remained plastered against the wall. “Did he say anything?” When he receives no response, he repeats himself only louder this time around.

“N-No, my lord,” Brand stutters.

“What happened?” Cináed demands when the boy does not continue.

“I was sleeping under the table when Lord Cian barged in, much like you just did. He stared at the fire and smoke began to fill the room. There were strange faces and shapes in the smoke. Then it just stopped. He collapsed and everything was gone, the faces and the smoke, it was all gone.” Brand words rush out and almost trip over each other in their rush to be spoken.

“Is that all?” Cináed asks as he turns his attention back to his brother.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bridie?”

“My lord?”

“Fetch your father, Brad, for me. Tell him that I need help getting Cian to my chambers.”

The girl’s footsteps disappear down the hallway. There was a day when Cináed was able to hoist his brother over his shoulders with ease, days that were not that long ago. However, in the past years, Cian grew larger and Cináed had less time to spend on physical pursuits.

“What did you see?” Cináed mumbles as he brushes Cian’s dark brown hair out of his face. “I hope you will tell me this time.”

Brad arrives soon afterwards with his daughter on his heels. Together they manage to carry Cian up two flights of stairs and into Cináed’s chambers. After they have Cian settled down into an overstuffed armchair, Cináed dismisses Brad. “Go back to sleep. Take Bridie with you, she should not be up and about so late.”

“Yes, my lord.” Brad bows out of the room.

Cináed prepares himself a cup of tea, sits down in his own armchair, and prepares to wait it out. He knows from experience that it could be hours before Cian wakes up. Even after hours of waiting, there is no guarantee that Cian will share the content of his dreams.

Cináed sits and ponders. A small part of him hopes that Cian has finally dreamt about Bettina and has news for him. However, he knows that it will be easier if the dream is about the rebellion or something else. Bláthnat and Caoimhe gave their mother up for dead years ago. By the end of the summer, the girls had stopped asking about their mother. When Bettina failed to return there were a few questions, but those quickly faded away and were never asked again. Cináed fears that one day one of the girls will ask him about what really happened to their mother and he will be unable to give them any sort of satisfactory answer.

To know what happened to Bettina, whether she is alive or dead will force Cináed to move on with his life. If she is gone, then he will be expected to remarry so that he can produce a male heir, but if she is alive, the waiting will resume. This time there will be hope in the waiting. However, in a way, hope will only make the waiting worse. Now, he can be bitter – it is unfair, he knows that – but he can pretend that she abandoned him and their daughters. Pretending makes the separation easier. It makes it easier to let go of the happy memories; allow the memories slip away as his life proceeds without her. Even with his bitter hatred, he cannot forget the smile on her face as she said goodbye and promised him that she would have a surprise for him when she returned. He had come up with a few theories about what the surprise was, but there was not guarantee or affirmation of his ideas.

A groan from the other armchair yanks Cináed from his musings. His grey eyes flick towards Cian who is beginning to stir. Cináed carefully sets his tea down before moving to add a few logs to the dimming fire. Chill was creeping across the worn wooden floor of the spacious sleeping chambers afforded to the lord of the manor.

Cináed prepares a second cup of tea, this one with a sugar cube, and places it at Cian’s elbow. Cináed knows from experience that it is often the small things that will return Cian to himself – mood swings and all – after a dream that takes hold of him in the darkness of his private chambers.

Cian opens his eyes with another groan. He blinks owlishly at his brother. “Cináed, how’d I get here?” he asks roughly.

“You were carried,” Cináed says stirring his tea absently. “You passed out on the floor of the kitchen.”

Cian pushes himself into an upright position. The movement jostles his head and he groans again. “Must have hit the ground pretty hard,” he says rubbing his head gingerly.

“There is some tea by your elbow,” Cináed points out.

Cian picks it up and peers into the cup skeptically.

“There’s some sugar in it.”

“Ah, good,” Cian says before taking a sip. He sighs quietly and continues drinking the tea.

Neither of the brothers speak again until Cian finishes his cup and sets it to the side. Cináed wants to press his brother, but does not want to know. He knows that even if he waits he will be given the information that he so dreads and desires.

“A dream?” Cináed asks softly, when Cian does not venture to volunteer the information himself.

“Yeah.” Cian looks away from his younger brother and looks into the fire that is quietly crackling in the fireplace.

“The kitchen boy was quite scared by the whole affair.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cian mumbles. “They always scare me and this one was worse than most.” His hand reaches to massage one of his old scars absentmindedly.

“How so?” Cináed presses.

Cian’s head snaps up to stare at his younger brother. “If you want to know why don’t you just ask?” he snaps viciously.

Cináed flinches at the tone of his brother’s voice.

Cian drops his head into his hands with a groan. “I’m sorry, Cin’. I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . I’m not myself. It might take a few days to be myself again.”

Cináed nods even though he does not understand what Cian means. The dreams always take their toll, but several days to recover . . . that is one that Cináed had never heard of before. “What was it about?” he asks impulsively before backpedaling. “You don’t have to tell me, I just have a feeling –”

“That it concerns you,” Cian interrupts. He sighs before turning his blue eyes to meet his brother’s. “You’re not entirely wrong,” he says quietly. “You’re not wrong.”

Cian stands, wobbling a little. “Before I can tell you we need something stronger than this,” he gestures to the tea. “Do you have any whisky in here? I know you used to, but –”

“Yes,” Cináed says quickly, moving to the bedside stand. He moved to cut off his brother; to cut off what he knew would come next in that sentence. Cian was going to mention that the bottle might be empty. Cináed always kept a bottle of something stronger than wine in his bed chamber just in case, but over the past years the bottle had been empty more times than Cináed was willing to admit to himself much less his brother.

Cináed yanks the bottle from its hiding place under a stack of books and papers – some of the papers scattering all over the floor – and sets it on the table between himself and his brother.

Cian holds out his teacup. “No need for fancy or appropriate glasses at this hour.”

Cináed grunts his agreement before filling his teacup after he finishes with his brother’s cup; he sets the bottle back down between them. He leave the lid off; this bottle might not make it through the night.

Cian downs his cup in one swig and fills it again before he begins speaking. “I said that you were not wrong. The dream does concern you, but it was not about you, in particular.” He pauses to take a sip from his cup. “It was about Bettina.” He holds his hand up to stop the words that are about to tumble from his brother’s open mouth. “Yes, after all this time.

“And I . . . I am sorry, brother.”

“What happened?” Cináed grinds out enunciating each of his words. “What was it?”

“A storm. A spring squall. You know that type.”

“But, what happened?” Cináed demands again.

“Do you really want the details?” Cian asks softly his hard blue eyes meeting his brother’s stormy greys.

“All of the details that you can provide.”

“I’ve told you how these sometimes work, Cin’.” Cian looks away. “Sometimes I experience everything that the person I am dreaming about experiences. Those are some of the worst, but they can also be one of the better dreams depending on the subject matter. This was one of those times, and it was bad.”

“Tell me,” Cináed practically growls. His hands clench tightly around his teacup, a brief part of his mind wonders how hard he would have to squeeze for the cup to shatter in his hands.

“Cináed . . .” Cian starts to speak to dissuade his brother.

“Tell me,” Cináed repeats, this time his voice is much more menacing.

Cian sighs deeply, stares down into his cup, and swirls the amber liquid before swallowing all of it and filling his cup once more. His face crumbles at the taste, but it relaxes to a saddened expression. “Alright. I will tell you.

“Everything was good. The sea was calm and the sky was as blue as she had ever seen. The nets are not bringing in as many fish as she and the rest of the crew had hoped they would, but the haul is decent enough for them to break for a short meal. The conversations mostly revolved around what a nice day that it was, and family. Bettina spoke of several children, Luca, Alida, Ben, and Áedbran. Nieces and nephews I assume. Everything was fine until one of the crew spotted dark clouds on the western horizon. They had ventured beyond sight of the shore in hopes of a better catch. It was moving too fast. Lightening burst through the clouds. Leaping from one ominous blue cloud to another. Everyone on the boat works to pull the sails in and sets to rowing. Everyone is worried; the hair on their skin stands on end; and they feel sick. They haul at the oars. Blisters growing and bursting only to be ignored in desperation. The clouds are far too close and the shore is too far away. The waves begin to rock the boat. The oars no longer sink smoothly beneath the surface. They pull on empty air, burst from beneath the water mid-stroke, or get sucked downward yanking the oar from the rower’s hands. Everything is moving. They grab rope to bind themselves to the short mast, to keep themselves from being pushed overboard by the waves the grab and grasp at them. The ropes, however, do very little when the waves seize the boat and turn her over throwing the crew into the wine-dark waves the pull at them.” Cian pauses from his quiet, even recitation. “Everything after that is panic and gasping for breath. Trying to grasp one another’s hands only to be torn apart by the storm. Then there was nothing.

“That is it then. She is gone,” Cináed picks up the bottle and takes a long pull of the burning amber liquid. The burning in his throat is only matched by the burning of hot tears in his eyes.

“There is one more thing, Cin’,” Cian almost whispers.

“What?” Cináed snaps through the hated and threatening tears.

“Her last thought was of you.” These words are spoken at a whisper, but there is no doubt that Cináed heard them clearly if his broken-hearted groan is anything to go by. Cian watches as he brother seized the bottle and stumbles from the room, the falcon tattoo – one of Cináed’s few, and one of Cian’s many; the only tattoo that they share – quakes as the muscles beneath the skin shift and undulate in movement.

Cináed disappears into the dark hallway leaving his brother sitting alone in front of the fire with a half-full cup of whisky.

“I am sorry, brother,” Cian whispers to the whisky and to the fire. Cian briefly thinks about his nieces, and if he should tell them or let Cináed decide. He knows what this will mean for Cináed. A final confirmation will mean that the king is likely to force him to remarry. The king will not easily abide one of his most influential lords – by word of mouth if not in actual power – to remain without an heir. Cináed could argue that Caoimhe will succeed him, but that will cause its own problems, one of the most prominent being finding her someone to be betrothed to that will not take everything from her. Cian knows that Cináed will not want to place his eldest daughter in such a position. He will remarry, if only to do his duty with no regards for love or even fondness.

Cian rises with a sigh. “You should have stayed, Bettina. He was better because of you. You were the best of us. But, now, may the gods watch over you.” With his final words, he tosses the little whisky that remains in his cup into the fire.


End file.
